Free A Useless Man by Sait Faik Abasiyanik

and salutes the blind violinist. The drummer whispers something to the blind violinist who cuts off the horn player’s salute. And the zither player’s taut, freshly shaved and alum-smeared face, hardly visible behind the singer, suddenly collapses into a million crinkles. The horn player sits down. Shouldn’t therebe buttons on his pants? Or have they popped off because he’s so fat? The tassels on his green scarf dangle out of his fly. Some notice and laugh and the nightclub proprietor signals to him with a wink and a nod. Embarrassed, the horn player stands up, turns his back to the audience, takes a few moments to adjust his pants, sits back down, looks around the room, then pulls a cigarette case out of his pocket. It seems like he might roll a cigarette – but no, he pulls a reed out of one of his horns and puts it away. Then he takes out another one, surely the best one, or rather he pretends to be taking the best one out just for this night. That’s when I always leave.
    I haven’t been anywhere else in Istanbul for seven years apart from this street. I’m afraid. I’m worried that I might get beaten up if I go further afield, or robbed, or lynched, and who knows what else – just the thought of leaving these streets fills me with confusion. Anywhere else, and I feel out of my depth. Everyone looks so frightening. I wonder who they all are, these people on the streets. The city is so huge, and everyone’s a stranger. Why do they even make these cities to pack in this many people, when people don’t like each other anymore? I just don’t understand. Is it so that people can deceive and humiliate and murder each other? How can it be that so many strangers would wish to live in the same space?
    If nothing else, a neighborhood is still a neighborhood. My shop could burn down, and I could go hungry. But somehow I have confidence that the man who sells me tripe soup with lots of lemon every afternoon will serve me until I die. And Saloman will keep handing me a bruised orange or two when I pass by, and to the half-dressed Jewish children on the street. My clothes might be old and ragged by then, they might not let me in, but the lady will still serve me a coffee at the door.
    These are pipedreams, I know, but they show you how much I love my neighborhood. I don’t want to see anyone else anymore, most particularly old acquaintances. Sometimes I run into one of them passing through my neighborhood.
    “So finally! So this is where you’ve been hiding, is it?”
    I lower my head and look down as if to say, what’s the problem with that?
    “People always said you could have ended up anywhere …”
    The former friend will add:
    “But damn it, you’re still drifting, aren’t you?” It’s not about giving up the idle life, it’s about giving up altogether, but I can’t explain that to him. Some say:
    “I know the deal, you rascal. You’re chasing someone …”
    The truth is, I’ve even stopped chasing after myself. But I still love that dark Jewish girl, the carpenter’s friend, the one with the dark spot eyes, and the voluptuous hands. I can only dream of the other warm and sweet-scented corners beyond her legs.
    Yesterday I decided for no reason to venture outside the neighborhood. I went to Unkapanı and then up to Saraçhane. Istanbul had changed so much since I’d last seen it. I was dumbstruck. But enjoying myself, nonetheless.
    Clean asphalt, broad avenues … What a splendid aqueduct – from a mile away, it looked almost like the Arc de Triomphe from a whole mile away! The Gazanfera? Madrasah just beside it: so bright and white and charming. I visited one park after another, to take refuge under the trees. And as I wandered fearfully through the city, I saw people, people everywhere. I walked as far as Kıztaşı. I started down the hill from Fatih. Now I was in Saraçhane. I looked up and saw workmen on the top of a building they were demolishing. There used to be a hamam around here.