Recent Story: A Good Person

My breath has slowed. I feel no pain anymore. Voices reach my ears, but I cannot understand them. Everything is white, bright. Soon my eyelids will close, my consciousness will fade. I used to write stories—on buses, in hotel rooms. Nothing remarkable, but they opened a door for me, let me look at the sky. Now I am thinking: if I had time, if I could write the story of what I have lived through, what kind of story would I write?

As I approached the village, I glanced back at my footprints in the snow. The weather forecast had called for heavy blizzards by evening, but there was not a cloud in the sky. The deeper I walked, the more the snow rose, creeping over my boot walls and seeping into my ankles, that cold, liquid sensation sliding down my skin.

The house stood outside the village. I approached the house positioned between myself and the village like a wall, making sure no one would see me. I hopped over the fence and waited. Suat was right—no dog. I circled around and slipped onto the porch, knocked on the door. I never liked waiting. Shoes were scattered all around. Which ones were his, I wondered? A silence deep enough to swallow the garden gate swaying in the wind. Doubt crept in—was this the right house? I was about to knock again when I heard footsteps. I straightened myself, smiled, lifted my shoulders.

A small woman cracked the door open, peered out with one eye and looked me up and down. The woman's bashful manner, her loose headscarf slipped back, reminded me of my childhood wandering the stony roads of the village I had left behind. I felt a pang of fear.

"Hello, sister, sorry to bother you at this hour. Is this Tamer Sipahi's house?"

A smile appeared on her pink face, revealing the beauty of her youth despite her age. She opened the door wider and adjusted her headscarf.

"Yes, please?"

"Is he home?"

"Ah, you're the one who's come for the package?"

"That's right, sister."

"Please, please, come in. I'm his wife. Tamer's not here but he'll be back soon, please come in."

From the porch window, I cast a furtive glance at the houses with smoke rising from their white roofs. No one had seen me enter. The woman set a pair of slippers before me, bending down and pressing her hand to her chest to keep her scarf from falling and exposing herself. I entered the living room and sat in a red velvet armchair with wooden arms. The woman asked to be excused and left.

It was a large room. The mismatch of furniture, colors, and empty spaces suggested it had been furnished not all at once, but over years. The scent of wood relaxing in the warmth of the cast-iron stove added melancholy to the ticking wall clock, to the photographs of grandfathers, to the symmetry of lace crocheted on winter nights. I waited, and as I waited, my tension eased, I relaxed like the scent of wood. Thinking back, in that brief moment, the peace that poured over me from the white ceiling was something I had not felt in years. I might have even dozed off. When I opened my eyes, the woman was standing before me. The tenderness in her face reminded me of my sister. Her voice was shaky but steady.

"Here, take these. They're Tamer's but new, he's never worn them."

She must have noticed my wet socks when She had set the slippers down. She felt my embarrassment, placed the socks on the coffee table, and left. I stared at them for a while, then peeled off the wrapper and put them on. I rolled up my wet socks and stuffed them in my pocket. I tried to stop it but could not—my eyes watered. I shook myself, slapped my cheeks a couple of times. Footsteps again. Someone was coming down the stairs. An old man with thick glasses and a cane appeared at the entrance. When he saw me, he smiled. I stood up. He shuffled over in his slippers. When he raised his hand toward my face in that practiced way old people have, I had to kiss it. As he settled into the chair, he seemed pleased.

"Well done, my boy, well done. So, you're Tamer's guest, the one who's come for the package. Well done. Would you grace me with your name?"

"Ahmet, uncle."

"Ahmet, is it? Well done, a true Muslim name. You're a man of prayer like my Tamer, I can tell."

I did not know what to say. For years I had not set foot in a mosque or said a prayer. What right did I have to pray? If his wife was this old, Tamer must be quite a bit older than me. I mumbled vaguely.

"I could never match Tamer's faith, uncle."

"No, don't say that. You can’t weigh faith on a scale. You’re still young; your time will come to align yourself. But yes, my Tamer's worship is strong. However, there's one thing that truly measures the strength of faith."

"What's that, uncle?"

"Being a good person. You can be friends with the imam all you want, but what good is it if you're not friends with people's hearts? You can go on pilgrimage as many times as you like, pray all you want, but if you do not bring joy to the poor, does God believe you?"

As he said this, a familiar expression—something like pride—crossed his face. My eyes drifted to the frame on the wall. That was him, posing proudly in a black and white military portrait, smiling. A small photo tucked in the corner showed him in his middle age. From inside, from what I assumed was the kitchen, came the sound of cutlery.

"My Tamer is a good person. When anyone has trouble, he rushes to help, gives away everything he has to the poor and needy. Look, just now a woman up in the upper neighborhood got sick. He grabbed the tractor and went. Said he'd get her to town and be back."

"In that case... if it'll take long, I could come back later."

"No way, Ahmet, my boy? He’ll come; he won't be late. You're a guest sent by God, you've traveled far. And Tamer told me to expect you. We'll eat soon, we'll share whatever we have."

I swallowed, cursed Suat under my breath. When I had entered the house, my conscience had hurt a little. Then the woman had come with clean socks. Now Tamer Sipahi's father was saying we would share whatever they had. The conscience I had forgotten existed began to lash my soul, thin and sharp.

She came in. She looked like her mother. She wore a long, floral dress, short yellow socks on her feet that revealed her white ankles. Her headscarf had slipped back like her mother's. Our eyes met. Her curved, white cheeks flushed pink. My heartbeat changed.

"And this is my eldest grandchild, Gulizar. Look, Gulizar, this is our guest your father mentioned, Ahmet. If the stuffed eggplant isn't good, you'll shame us."

Gulizar lowered her eyes.

"Welcome. How could stuffed eggplant be bad, grandfather?"

She had said welcome. To me. As I hesitated whether to respond, she pulled out a tablecloth from the cupboard and spread it over the wide table like a net, smoothing the corners. The smell of stuffed eggplant reached my nose. My throat tightened. I felt my feet going numb.

"Really, you shouldn't have gone to such trouble. I could just take the package and go."

Like hell I could. Suat had given me strict instructions. Tamer Sipahi would hand me the package. The moment I took it, I would pull the gun and shoot Tamer and everyone in the house. I had no idea why. I did not need to know—I was a thirty-two-year-old hired killer. I had told Suat I was quitting. Every time he said, “this is the last one, do this and you can quit”. When I took this job, I had made him swear he would not come to me again. He had said Tamer Sipahi would probably be alone. But if he was not alone, the others had to die too. Son of a bitch! I was melting drop by drop like snowflakes seeping into my socks. The woman jumped in at once.

"No, Ahmet, my boy, I don't care about packages. Tamer's package to us is you. You're our guest. I won't send you anywhere without eating, I swear."

I have killed many people. How I chose this path, why I chose this path—it is torture for me to tell, torture for you to hear. Who wants to listen to someone who has made a companion of the devil? I have never seen this Suat. He reaches out by phone. Then I find an envelope under my door. Sometimes he gives the victim's name, sometimes a photo. He pays me in full. This time he had not sent a photo, just said Tamer Sipahi and gave the address.

"No, really, you're going to so much trouble. I'm embarrassed."

Gulizar's eyes flashed to my heart for a moment.

"If you leave, we'll be the ones who are embarrassed."

How could I harm these people? Who would want to kill a man like Tamer Sipahi, and why? “I'm just a middleman, brother, if they put up the money, everyone's the same to me”, Suat would say. “Your greatest enemy is your conscience”, he would add. I could take the package and leave, make up something for Suat. In ten years, I had never left a job half done—maybe he'd forgive this exception. But the problem did not end there. If someone had paid for Tamer Sipahi to die, he would die. Either by my hand or someone else's.

As I sat dying in that chair, it never occurred to me to wonder what could be worse. Then Emir came in.

"Oh, Emir's awake. Look, Ahmet, this is my younger grandson, Emir. Come on, Emir, run and hug Uncle Ahmet."

He was seven or eight years old. He had curly black hair. He approached shyly, wrapped his arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

"Well done, Emir. Look, Ahmet, my boy, we waited a long time for this Emir. Gulizar has her own place, but we wanted a boy too. We'd almost given up hope when Emir came. He came late, but he came well, my grandson."

Gulizar was watching us as she set the breadbasket on the table. Emir climbed down from my lap and immediately started searching for something. There was a childish seriousness on his face. Gulizar laughed.

"Upstairs in the room, dear, by the green sofa."

When the old man realized I did not understand, he was pleased.

"Hah. Our Emir is an unusual child, Ahmet, my boy. Other people's grandsons play with toys, all he cares about is rope. All day long he plays with ropes. Makes knots, ties everything to everything. Ties up his sister, ties up his mother. At first, they were small ropes. Now he doesn't want those—he plays with actual rope, rope like cable. His father brought him a blue rope the other day. You know those mountain climbers? Theirs. Not as thick as cable, but stronger."

Emir came running down the stairs with a climbing rope slung across his shoulder, standing before me like a proud commander. The old man leaned forward.

"There it is. Careful now, Ahmet, my boy, don't encourage him."

Emir was looking at me, waiting for me to say something. Wondering when I had last talked to a child, I cleared my throat.

"Hmm, that really is a beautiful rope."

"It's not rope, for one thing. It's climbing rope. My dad bought it. Stronger than all the others."

"Oh, climbing rope. What do you do with it?"

"When I grow up, I'm going to help people like my dad. When I'm a climber, I'm going to save lots of people with this rope. That's why I'm practicing knots."

"Do you know how to tie knots?"

"Want me to show you?"

His mother interrupted.

"Not now, Emir, it's time to eat. Come on, everyone, the table's ready."

I could not harm these people. The hand holding my spoon was trembling, creating ripples on the surface of the soup. Tamer Sipahi could arrive any moment, I could face what I had to do. I looked for a way out. I could pull Tamer Sipahi aside and talk to him. We killers know how to control our breathing, how to command our heartbeat. But it was not working—my whole body felt like it was shaking. Yes, I would warn him. Tell him to take his family and leave. I could even help them. Who knew better than me how to hide, how to get fake IDs? The old man had said I would align myself one day. Turning away from the path I had walked with the devil and becoming a companion to this family, protecting them—was not that alignment?

We talked about many things. Gulizar asked about the city, about cinemas, about markets. The old man talked about his military service, the woman about the hardships of village life. Emir listened without taking his eyes off me. Strangely, they were not asking anything about my connection with Tamer Sipahi, but the conversation kept circling back to him. I had never encountered someone so respected by his family, so loved by those around him. Maybe God had sent him to me so I could draw a line over my sins.

As we ate our rice pudding, Emir had already left the table, tying and untying chairs and coffee tables. Now and then he would stop and call out to his grandfather, trying to get my attention. The old man leaned in so he would not hear.

"Ahmet, my boy, now he'll come to his sister, then to you. Whatever you do, don't encourage him."

I smiled genuinely, not with guest politeness. To them I was just a visitor. They did not yet know that they had reminded me of everything I had forgotten, that the bond I had formed with them in this brief time was sacred.

It happened just as the man said. Emir tied up his sister, jumping with joy. Gulizar struggled but could not get free, gave up. Then, he came to me. Everyone laughed. All right, I said, let's see if I can solve your knot. I turned my chair around and held out my wrists together.

With his tongue sticking out, Emir worked on his knot while behind me I could hear Gulizar's voice. "Don't do it, Emir," she was saying, "you shouldn't have encouraged him," she was saying, laughing all the while. When Emir finished his work, he looked into my eyes as if to say, go ahead. I tested it—tight. I cannot undo this, I said. What I did not see was Gulizar hopping onto a chair and threading the loose end of the rope through a hook in the ceiling. When I turned around, they were standing just beyond the table. They were holding the end of the rope that ran from my wrists to the hook and back down. I slowly stood up. Before I understood what was happening, Emir shouted, now!

They all jumped back together. I am a slight man, easy to throw. With my wrists in front and me behind, I was dragged across the table, smashing dishes and glasses, sliding smoothly but loudly. When I reached the hook, my body swung and I felt an indescribable pain in my wrists. Now I was above the floor, hanging from the ceiling by my hands, swinging. They were shouting, pulling the rope taut, while Emir tried to knot the other end to another hook on the wall.

When they stood across from me and began watching my swinging body, none of them were the same people anymore. It is hard to describe the hatred on their faces. Even Emir seemed twenty years older, shadows falling across his face. How could a child look like that? And Gulizar, with her beautiful eyes, white neck, the lovely girl who had made my heart leap? The old man came closer and spoke in a different voice.

"So, you came to pick up a package, Ahmet, my boy. Wait, let me show you the package you're getting. Gulizar, bring it."

I could not feel my hands. Needles were stabbing into my back. My lips stung like pimples about to burst. I do not know why, but I did not want them to see my fear. I tried to stay calm. Possibilities ran through my mind. Had Tamer Sipahi learned I was coming? Had he set this trap for me? Would a man use his kids, his wife, his father as tools for such a trap?

Soon Gulizar came in holding a large box. The man set the wooden box on the table and opened it. I looked at Gulizar. She was shaking her head as if to say, “you'll see”- stroking Emir's curly hair. He pulled out a photo I could not quite make out. He held the photo up to my eyes.

"Do you recognize the person in this photo, Ahmet, my boy?"

I did. Suat had sent me the same photo three or four months ago. No name. Just a photo and the address of the hotel where he was staying. Victims without names require patience. You must watch for a long time, identify them from the photo. But hotels are relatively easy—all you have to do is wait in the right place. I had waited in the breakfast room and found him. After he left the hotel, I had followed him for a long time, waiting for a deserted moment. The sun was setting when he entered a mountain equipment store. When he came out, he turned into an empty side street. A knife to the kidney paralyzes a person. The pain is so extreme they cannot even scream. When he collapsed stiff before me, his bags had fallen, and a bundle of blue rope had tumbled onto the sidewalk.

"This man's name is Tamer Sipahi. He's my son, the best person in the world. You took him from us."

The moment he finished speaking, Gulizar and her mother embraced, began to cry.

"Now you're asking. How is it that the man I came to kill, I've already killed? You don't understand how we got you. Let me explain, Ahmet, my boy. After Tamer, I went after this business. The police had nothing. I know people, a few from my wild youth. First, I learned Tamer had gotten mixed up in some business. Whether willingly or as a victim of his own kindness, I don't know—the sin is on my son. Someone had him killed, but they did not know the details. I dug deeper. I waited patiently, with faith. Last week, news came. They did not know who had him killed, or maybe they did not want to say. But they knew who killed him. They gave me a phone number. A man named Suat. They said if you pay him well, he'll send him to you. And Suat sent you to us. We woke up early this morning, Ahmet, my boy. We waited for you all day. Emir waited most of all."

Emir approached his grandfather. Perhaps he wanted to draw strength from him before speaking to me.

"You killed my dad with a knife. It really hurts. I heard it in a movie. Why didn’t you kill him with a gun, Uncle Ahmet? Why did you hurt him so much?"

Now I felt nothing—not just my hands, my arms, my back, but my soul. The anguish at the center of my numbness grew with every passing second. They waited for me to say something, maybe to beg for forgiveness, sobbing. When I made no sound, the old man opened the box. I could see from above. The inside was red velvet, like a jewelry box. In small slots sat four thin knives, their bright steel shorter than my pinky finger. Each handle was a different color. The man held the box up to my face.

"We bought these for you, Ahmet, my boy. We bought four so our anger would multiply fourfold, our revenge divides into four."

Then he passed the box around like holiday candy. The woman took the green one, Gulizar the yellow, Emir the blue, leaving the man with black. Emir pulled his chair close, climbed up, and thrust his blue-handled knife into my right buttock, then pulled it out. What Emir heard in the movie was true. I let out a sharp scream.

"Scream, Ahmet, my boy, scream. Everyone will hear you. But it doesn't matter. The whole village knows you're here. When you came in, they were all behind their curtains. They wanted to come, but I said no, this is business for the four of us."

The woman stabbed my right calf, Gulizar my left. The old man climbed onto the chair, took the gun from my waist, and stabbed his knife into my left shoulder. You could attribute the screams I let out each time those stubby steel blades entered my flesh to the pain. The pain truly was unbearable. But these were also the screams of a confrontation, and perhaps of purification. I looked at my clean socks—soaked, stained with blood. Strange, but I started to cry.

They simply left me there. Yes, left me. They returned to their daily routines as if I did not exist. The women cleared the table, cleaned up the broken pieces. The old man turned on the fat television and watched the news. Emir brought another rope and got busy with the coffee table legs. As my body swung from the ceiling, as the blood seeping from my wounds tried to clot, I gathered my mind. The knives were short and thin—unless they hit my heart or jugular, they would not kill me quickly. So, it would not be fast.

Emir broke off from his game, ran over, and stabbed another one into my groin. While I writhed, he had already gone, trying to tie his grandfather's foot to the chair. All evening, they came. Whenever the thought struck them, like drinking water or going to the bathroom, they had drop whatever they were doing and come, one by one.

When night fell and the lights went out, my consciousness returned. Moonlight illuminated the room. Directly beneath me, a dark stain pooled on the white tile, glinting off and on. At one point, a light came on inside. Beyond the corridor I could see Gulizar opening a door. Soon I heard a toilet flush, a tap run. When she came out of the bathroom, I gathered all my strength and moaned to make myself heard.

"Gulizaaaar."

She turned toward me. I tried to smile, but I am sure what came across my face was not a smile. I called out again.

"Guliizaaar."

She came into the room and turned on the light. So beautiful. Her eyes swept over me with hatred. In her white nightgown, bare feet, long hair falling over her shoulders—a fairy. The knife lay on the table. She picked it up. From where she stood, I tried to imagine how I appeared to her. I think I smiled this time. Examining my body, she hesitated, could not decide where to stab. I moaned again.

"Gulizar... if it makes you... happy... if it gives you... peace, I'm ready... to die like this... a thousand times... forgive me."

Her eyes widened, trembled, the rage she had been breathing deflated like a blown tire. Everything went dark, I felt myself fading but immediately came back. She was looking at me. Now, her white face was the face of the girl who had said welcome. She walked backward, cut the blue rope that had held me suspended for hours. I fell into the sticky pool beneath me. I lifted my head and searched for her. She had collapsed in the corner, crying.