Free Snow by Orhan Pamuk Page A

before she got married, this uneducated girl was naïve enough to give herself to a policeman twenty-five years her senior. And—it’s an awful pity—but it was after he’d told her he was married and had no intention of marrying her—
    —Shut up, you disgrace. That’s something your prostitute of a daughter would do.
    —Don’t do this, my son, don’t do this. If you shoot me, you’re only darkening your own future.
    —Say you’re sorry.
    —I’m sorry, son. Don’t shoot.
    —Open your mouth. I want to shove the gun inside. Now put your finger on top of mine and pull the trigger. You’ll still be an infidel but at least you’ll die with honor. (Silence.)
    —My child, look what I’ve come to. At my age, I’m crying. I’m begging you. Take pity on me. Take pity on yourself. You’re still so young. And you’re going to become a murderer.
    —Then pull the trigger yourself. See for yourself how much suicide hurts.
    —My child, I’m a Muslim. I’m opposed to suicide.
    —Open your mouth. (Silence.) Don’t cry like that. Didn’t it ever cross your mind that one day you’d have to pay for what you’ve done? Stop crying or I’ll shoot.
    (The voice of the old waiter in the distance.)
    —Should I bring your tea to this table, sir?
    —No, thank you. I’m about to leave.
    —Don’t look at the waiter. Keep reading your death sentence.
    —My son, please forgive me.
    —I said read.
    —“I am ashamed of all the things I have done. I know I deserve to die and in the hope that God Almighty will forgive me . . .”
    —Keep reading.
    —My dear child. Let this old man cry for a few moments. Let me think about my wife and my daughter one last time.
    —Think about the girls whose lives you destroyed. One had a nervous breakdown, four were kicked out of school in their third year. One committed suicide. The ones who stood trembling outside the doors of your school all came down with fevers and ended up in bed. Their lives were ruined.
    —I am so very sorry, my dear, dear child. But what good will it do if you shoot me and turn yourself into a murderer? Think of that.
    —All right. I will. (Silence.) I’ve given it some thought, sir. And here’s what I’ve worked out.
    —What?
    —I’d been wandering around the miserable streets of Kars for two days and getting nowhere. Then I decided it must be fate, so I bought my return ticket to Tokat. I was drinking my last glass of tea when—
    —My child, if you thought you could kill me and then escape on the last bus out of Kars, let me warn you. The roads are closed due to the snow. The six o’clock bus has been canceled. Don’t live to regret this.
    —Just as I was turning around, God sent you into the New Life Pastry Shop. And if God’s not going to forgive you, why should I? Say your last words. Say, “God is great.”
    —Sit down, son. I’m warning you—this state of ours will catch you all—and hang you.
    —Say, “God is great.”
    —Calm down, my child. Stop. Sit down. Think it over one more time. Don’t pull that trigger. Stop. (The sound of a gunshot. The sound of a chair pushed out.) Don’t, my son! (Two more gunshots. Silence. A groan. The sound of a television. One more gunshot. Silence.)  

CHAPTER SIX

    He Kissed My Hand
    love, religion, and poetry: muhtar’s sad story

    After Ipek left him at the entrance to Halıl Pasa Arcade and returned to the hotel, Ka waited before climbing the stairs to the second-floor branch headquarters of the Prosperity Party; he spent some time mingling with the apprentices, the unemployed, and the idle poor who were loitering in the corridors on the ground floor. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing the director of the Institute of Education lying on the floor in his death agony; racked by remorse and guilt, he told himself that he should be phoning some of the contacts he’d made that morning: the assistant chief of police, perhaps, or someone in Istanbul, or the news office of the Republican,