Gone with the Orange Blossoms | Yet, They Linger
Nighttime, it was nighttime in Adana when Berat stepped onto the airstairs. It was a routine that Berat was quite used to by now, but landing at Şakirpaşa Airport was never pleasant, regardless. The walk to the arrivals terminal was miserable. The heat and humidity taunted him, incongruent with the pitch blackness of the sky. The air conditioning inside the airport was off. The wait for his luggage was long. Berat switched his SIM card. He called his mother. It rang, then rang some more, and then displayed “00:00”
“Berat? Did you land?” His mother was still a worrywart. Berat chuckled softly.
“Yes, anne1. I’m waiting for my luggage. Are you outside?”
“Yes, Melek and I are waiting for you. We’re on the left.”
“Great…“ Berat thought to himself. The road outside Şakirpaşa was always busy.
“Call me when your luggage arrives, okay?”
“Of course, anne. See you soon.”
Call ended. Berat groaned, his eyes moved to check his phone’s clock. 02:48.
When his luggage arrived, it was 03:12.
He sighed, grabbed his heavy duffle bag, and tiredly walked towards Şakirpaşa’s joke of a customs terminal. Empty. Nothing to declare. He left the airport and was immediately assaulted by a combination of musky, humid air and cigarette smoke. The sound of shouted names and honking horns overwhelmed his senses. It was hot, Adana was always hot in the summer, even at night. He was sweating, he was exhausted from the trip, and he forgot to call his mother. The realization barely had time to hit him before he felt something slam into his shoulder.
"Pardon," a monotone voice said. Berat turned towards it, spotting an olive-skinned man in red flannel hurriedly walking away while carrying a duffle bag of his own. Berat groaned, turning away and continuing to walk.
“Berat! Over here!” cried a familiar, female voice. He looked left towards the source, spotting Melek Abla2 sitting in her grey Fiat, waving him over, wearing her everpresent ear-to-ear smile. His mother was similarly waving, her expression less enthused than Melek’s.
“Coming!”, Berat shouted out. Melek Abla stepped out of the car as he approached.
“My love! I missed you!” Melek said, pulling Berat into a painfully tight hug.
“Hey—Ack—Melek Abla—” Berat choked out, trying in vain to answer. She kissed him on the cheeks, let go of the hug, then pinched his ear playfully.
“You forgot to call, young man! Your poor mother was worried sick!” Melek teased, dragging him towards the back of the car by his ear.
Berat let out a yelp and winced. “Ow, ow, ow—Melek Abla—!” He couldn’t finish his objections before Melek Abla opened the trunk of her car and let go of his ear. She took his bag off him before he had a chance to blink, chucking it into the back of her car and slamming the trunk shut.
Berat laughed sheepishly, face red with embarrassment. Melek Abla chuckled with pride at the sight, getting into the driver’s seat of her car. Berat followed suit, opening the back door and slumping into the seat with a mix of exhaustion, defeat, and discomfort. He barely had time to groan before he met his mother’s gaze with his own. Her squinted eyes hid grey irises and bloodshot red sclera. He looked away in shame, sitting silently; waiting for her to say something.
“How was your trip, Berat?” The casual question disarmed any tension in the air. Berat saw his mother’s face relax into a muted smirk and let out an internal sigh of relief. He gave a weak, forced smile in return.
“Long. I’m exhausted,” He said, failing to hold his smile. His mother chuckled, turning her head towards the dash and waving her hand in playful dismissal.
“Of course, of course. Don’t let me bother you, then."
Berat didn’t respond, pressing his face against the car window and staring out into the streets of his hometown. Adana had a quaint warmness at night, even with the streets as empty as they were. Old, incandescent streetlights dimly lit inexplicably well-maintained roads with a friendly, orange glow. Orange blossoms littered handmade stone sidewalks in a sea of pale white. It was too late in the year for orange blossoms to bloom, but their remnants littered the streets for months after, along with oranges themselves. There were no other cars out on the route his mother was taking to impede the view he had of Seyhan.3 He smiled at the sight.
Something stuck out to him, though. The dogs. Where were the dogs? Adana was normally littered with street dogs at all hours of the day. Large, cream-colored street dogs descended from shepherd dogs found around the country were as ubiquitous a sight on Adana's streets as human beings were. They weren't outside anywhere he looked. It was nighttime, which made sense, but he needed a reason to start some conversation anyway.
He peeled his tired body away from the window and looked towards the two women in front of him.
“Hey, Melek Abla? Where are the street dogs?” Berat asked. He saw Melek Abla quickly turn towards him, wearing a calculated, disarming grin.
“Sleeping, what else? They're smart, they know not to go outside after nighttime anymore.” She said, still smiling.
Berat raised an eyebrow. “Anymore?” He saw Melek Abla's smile sharply fade.
“You don't know?“ A rare expression of worry flashed across Melek Abla's face, before it was hurriedly hidden under a weak, conflicted half-grin.
“Don't worry about it, canım.“4 Berat's mother said, interjecting. “I'll tell you tomorrow. Just rest for now. You've had a long day.”
Berat wanted to object to his line of inquiry being shut down so abruptly, but he knew better than to question his mother when she made up his mind. He let out a grunt and closed his eyes once more.
By the time the car stopped, Berat was too tired to think coherently. His brain was rushing to repay the 18-some-odd hours of sleep debt it had accrued during the trip, and his body was in no position to disagree. He forced his arms and legs to cooperate with him as he stepped out of the car and grabbed his bag. He kissed Melek Abla on the cheek and waited for his mother to open the apartment doors. Berat didn't have the energy to do much but walk on autopilot after he entered the small, rickety elevator with his mother. The time between his stepping inside and his collapsing on the bed of his old room was unaccounted for in his sleep-deprived mind, useless memories shed for a few more minutes of energy. The void of sleep took him with eager, predatory haste.
Blackness.
All-consuming, comforting blackness.
Peace found with the melting of thoughts, worries, and desires into infinite, inky blackness.
Peace is never infinite. Blackness, violated with hazy visions of places, people, things that would mean something to someone.
Dogs. A corner store. A clock tower. Orange blossoms. Smiles. Frowns. Closed eyes. A black suit.
Yet more violations. Voices, belonging to people familiar in ways now faded into the hungry blackness of sleep.
An aging woman speaks to him, mouth opening and closing robotically. No words come out, only sound. Vocal sounds without coherence or structure. A balding man joins into the chorus, standing behind a counter. His mouth opens and closes with the same rhythm. He unceremoniously melts into the darkness, leaving behind nothing. The woman stands, continuing to speak.
Finally, the noises coming out of the woman coalesce into words. A command. An order.
“KALK, TALİHSİZ, MERAKLI KEDİ. KALK VE KENDİ İPİNİ ÇEK.”5
Berat's body understood the command before his mind did.
Berat opened his eyes slowly. Too bright. His extremities tingled, he felt something wet on his right cheek, he felt uncomfortably hot; something heavy was on his legs. It was moving. He felt something sharp dig into his calf and jumped out of bed with a yelp. He turned to find the source and spotted a large, orange blur darting out of the room. Sputtering, he quickly tried to get his bearings. The room was small: a wooden desk, an old bookshelf, a dresser with a dirty mirror, and a large bed took up most of its space. The bookshelf was stuffed with familiar objects: old notebooks from school, thick novels he never got around to reading, and things that reminded him of simpler, younger days. A cap for a fire hydrant he found on his last day at his middle school, a pencil case with Adana Demirspor branding Mustafa gifted him on his 13th birthday, a cheap plastic BB gun he bought against the wishes of his mother back when they both still lived in Yüreğir… the sight filled him with warmness. This was his room. This was his bed. He was home.
The warmness quickly faded. He didn’t feel very well-rested. He looked at his pillow, now stained with a large pool of saliva, then turned to face the large mass in his peripheral vision.
He saw his bag plopped next to the door and stumbled over to it to change. His clothes were there, as was his laptop, some books, and various immaculately-packaged gifts for friends and family he brought back from the States. He took everything out and organized them on his bed, then changed out of his sweat-soaked, dirty clothes. A t-shirt, shorts, and short-ankle length socks were all he needed. He had time to put everything away later. He grabbed the small, red package labeled ‘Canım Annem,‘ stuffed it into his pocket, and promptly left his room.
He couldn’t even get both feet out the door before he felt Kumpir's claws dig into their flesh.
“Ah—Siktir!”6 he yelled, pulling his leg away from the fat creamsicle-colored cat. He scowled at it, his gaze met with remorseless yellow eyes and dilated pupils.
“Did Mama not feed you? Hay Allah…” his scowl turned into a smile, then a laugh as he walked to the kitchen. He was used to the apartment’s layout after so many visits, even if it wasn’t the one he grew up in. He heard Kumpir sprinting ahead, chuckling at the sight. He opened the fridge covered in countless photos of him, his mother, his sister, ugly, tourist-trap magnets, and found a packet of smoked turkey in the same spot as it always was.
"Mrrp, mrow!"
Berat dropped the slice on the floor and watched as Kumpir began to devour it. He looked out the window. A series of large apartment buildings took up most of his view. ‘Blue skies, not too late,‘ he thought to himself. He took one last look at Kumpir, smiled, and walked to the living room, only to be met with the blissful feeling of cold air on his skin. An aging, once white AC unit whirred loudly. His mother was sitting on the couch and working. She had a cushion on her lap, capped by a silver-grey laptop. She raised her head above the screen’s boundary and smiled at him.
“Oy, bir tanem!7Did you sleep well?" She said, kind eyes beaming with delight. Berat laughed and smiled, sitting on the couch opposite hers.
“Oh, like a log.” He responded. His eyes scanned the room. That old television on the left end of the room, the gaudy alcohol cabinet on the right, a large white table directly in front of it, and a cat tree. That was new. He looked at it, and then looked back at his mother.
“Can he even fit in that?“ He asked rhetorically, pointing towards the large box standing near the top of the tree. His mother laughed, shaking her head before wordlessly waving her hand in dismissal.
She closed her laptop, putting the cushion to the side. Her eyes scanned Berat with keen inquisitiveness.
“Do you have a girlfriend yet?“ The words hit Berat like a bag of bricks, causing him to sputter with embarrassment.
“Anne!“ He shouted, blushing. He saw his mother laugh again.
“What? It's a normal question!“
“Hmph—" Berat grunted, looking away from his mother and crossing his arms. He couldn't hide his smile. There was a silence in the air, eventually cut by another round of questioning from his mother.
“How about a job?“ She asked, still smiling.
“Eh…" Berat responded, trying to think of what to say next. Could he tell her, worrywart she was?
“No job?“ She said, smile slowly fading.
“Yeah—Yeah… No job.“ The lie cut into him. He couldn't tell her.
He heard his mother sigh. The two stood in more awkward silence for some time. He fidgeted with his hands nervously. His mother stared daggers into him.
“Is LA nice?“
“Mhm.“ He said, contorting his hands unnaturally as he kept fidgeting. He heard his mother sigh again. Yet more silence.
“Okay, well, Berat, I need your help with some errands.” She said, her tone decidedly more serious. Berat stopped fidgeting and looked at her with his full attention.
“Go down to Hasan Abi’s8, then the bakery on Kurtuluş—You know the one. The shopping list and apartment keys are on the shoe cabinet. 500 liras should cover it, you can take the money from my purse.“
Berat nodded sheepishly in response. His mother's gaze felt constricting. Only when her face relaxed back into a neutral expression did he get the courage to stand up and walk over to the shoe cabinet. He grabbed the list and keys, then 500 liras from his mother's purse. He heard her call out right before he put his shoes on.
”Canım! Come over here!”
Berat obliged, walking back towards her. Her disappointed glare was replaced with a weak, but genuine smile.
”You forgot something.”
The realization hit him quickly. He kissed his mother on the cheek and relaxed.
”I love you, okay?”
”I love you too, anne.” He responded, guilt crushing his heart like a vice.
He walked back to the cabinet to put on a pair of old sneakers, and went down the cramped, slow elevator. He checked his phone. 13:19. June 12th, 2024. He groaned and put his phone away. The elevator opened to a large hallway ending in a pair of glass doors. He pushed them open and was met with a familiarly miserable wave of hot, sticky air. An intercom and keypad on the left caught his eye.
“CODE: 1881,” read a small paper attached to the bottom half of the intercom. He made a mental note of it and began walking to the grocer. The walk to Hasan Abi’s grocer wasn’t too long, but it felt like hours under the baking hot sun. Berat checked his phone, expecting something to change. He had to squint to see the screen, frustratingly dim in the sun. 13:24. He felt large beads of sweat sliding down his forehead, he felt his chest get hotter with every step. He had to take his mind off the heat, he had to come to his senses. He put his phone away and took the crumpled list out of his pocket, a small chunk of white paper, clearly ripped from a larger sheet.
Butter. Yogurt. Gazoz. Ice tea. Efes. He sighed, putting the list away. All of this was 500 now? The thought made him purse his lips in discomfort. He kept walking, looking for a nice tree to find some shade under. The orange trees had long since blossomed, ripe oranges hanging off branches in spades, taunting passersby with their presence. You couldn't pick them, huge no-no, one of the many inexplicable laws imposed by the government during times Berat was too young to remember. Rotting pulps lay on the floor, along with beautiful, white orange blossoms now tainted by the flesh of their fruited siblings., food for passing pigeons and unlucky shoe soles. Berat frowned at the sight, continuing to walk until he found a tree large enough to his liking. He stood under it, barely-cooling shade giving him just enough relief to be left with his thoughts. A boxy bulge in his pocket taunted him. He forgot to give his mother the gift. He cursed himself, clenching his fists. How could he tell her what he did for work, how he got the money to buy that for her? Another realization hit him. The dogs. He forgot to ask her.
"Stupid Berat. Stupid, forgetful Berat, you damnable fool.” His mind intrusively spat out at him.
He took out his phone once more, anything to distract himself, and was somewhat relieved that he didn't have to squint. He had to dry the screen with his shirt to unlock it; his fingers were too sweaty. 13:30.
He figured he should call Hasan Abi, and tell him that he was coming so he could prepare the order. He found his saved contact and dialed. It rang, then displayed "00:00"
"We're sorry, the number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in—" Berat groaned. Maybe he changed his phone number. He checked the store on his phone's map to see if it had a connected number. It was the same number he called. Verified yesterday. Berat instinctively felt ice shoot up his veins. He shook his head, put the phone away, and continued to walk. He wasted enough time anyway, he'd ask Hasan Abi for his number when he saw him.
He kept walking. He knew Hasan Abi wasn't too far away by now. He looked around. He was so preoccupied by the heat that he didn't even think to take in the sights of his hometown. Adana was a warm place, both in reality and in spirit. It was technically one of the largest cities in Turkey, but it had a closeness seldom found in cities its size. People had small circles: friends, family, friends of friends and so on who would call you by honorifics and pet names. People smiled, they said good morning, they went outside even on the hottest days. Old men with bald heads and bushy mustaches playing cards and drinking tea, little kids selling packs of tissues or bottles of water on the street, frail old ladies in headscarves haggling for fruit. There was always something.
Not this year. Ziyapaşa was disconcertingly dead. It was emptier every time Berat went to visit; Turkey's financial troubles hit Adana hard, but this time was different. It was like everyone was just as miserable as Berat was. No one was smiling. Old men playing cards and drinking tea didn't laugh or joke, they scowled at passersby. People looked at strangers and averted their eyes. They looked at the floor and just kept walking. Berat felt a mix of emotions bubbling in his mind, and a lump formed in his throat. What happened? Did he miss something? Was everyone just miserable from the heat? Was it just financial troubles? Berat shook his head again and continued walking. He had time to think about that later. Seeing Hasan Abi would make him feel better.
He turned the corner where he remembered Hasan's grocer being, and froze. It wasn't there. Berat blinked. He snapped out of his heat-induced autopilot. Hasan’s grocer was gone. Not closed, not shut down, gone. There was a giant, empty, box-shaped space where the grocer once was. Berat blinked again. Did he get the directions wrong? Was the heat getting to him? Abandoned buildings weren’t uncommon in Adana, but the foundations were gone too. It was like someone took the bottom floor of the tower where Hasan’s grocer once was, and simply deleted it. Berat was in disbelief. He looked around in a daze. Someone else was looking at it, a hunchback old woman in a floral headscarf was staring right at the empty space with eyes as wide as saucers, before gasping and immediately looking away. Was she crazy too?
He looked back, the store was still gone. The emptiness taunted him. His legs moved on their own, approaching the space with thoughtless curiosity. He squatted down, running his fingers through the thin layer of sandy dust covering the bare floor. He rubbed them together and felt small shards of something sharp dig into his skin. He recoiled, jolting back up and instinctively looking around before freezing. A man in aviators was looking right at him, expression neutral. He was wearing clothes unusual for Adana. Red flannel with the sleeves rolled up, blue jeans, expensive-looking dress shoes. He looked Turkish, his dark hair, stubble, and olive skin made that obvious, but that wasn't a source of comfort. His right hand was in his pocket, his left hand on his ear. He was saying something. Berat's body realized what was happening before his mind did.
This was the man from the airport.
He was dangerous.
He was talking about him.
Berat's heart pumped faster, his field of view expanded, time seemed to slow as his legs started screaming at him.
"Run." Berat kept looking at the man, he saw something shiny and black poke out of his belt.
"Run!" Berat shook and wobbled. He saw the man stop talking. He saw him reach for the black object.
"Run, you idiot!"
“Fuck this!” Berat thought, hurriedly sprinting towards Kurtuluş Avenue. His mind was racing as fast as his legs were. Incoherent thoughts screamed out in confusion and panic, he kept running until he saw the comfortingly familiar sign reading “Sinan Cihan Pastane”. He must have kept running for ages. He collapsed to his knees, bare skin hitting scalding, porous concrete. He panted like an animal. His skin wouldn’t stop tingling. A wave of nausea hit him, his thoughts went fuzzy, his head started spinning. His stomach clenched, he started salivating. His world went white as he voided the contents of his stomach; nothing except the acrid taste of bile and stomach acid came up.
Berat collapsed onto his back, staring up at the clear blue sky through hazy, tear-soaked eyes. He laid there for an inordinate amount of time, mind still racing. He couldn’t think about anything except the grocer and the man wearing sunglasses.
Why was it gone? Why did his mother send him to a grocer that was just gone? Why did he start running? Who was that man? Why is this happening? Did any of this even happen? Is this a dream? He was never one to dream vividly, but— How else?
He became keenly aware of the burning hot concrete scorching his skin.
It wasn’t a dream.
His thoughts were interrupted by a flash of cold, clear liquid being poured onto his face. Berat shouted, jumping up and locking eyes with a middle-aged man in a bakery uniform holding a frosty bottle of water. His expression was a mix of disgust, concern, and anger. Harsh, brown eyes full of judgment pierced his soul. Berat wanted to say something, to thank him, to explain why he was laying on the sidewalk next to a puddle of his own vomit, but couldn’t muster up anything more than panicked stutters. The man grumbled, offering the half-full bottle of water.
“Drink,” he spat out, the single word soaked in venom. Berat shakily grabbed the bottle, gulping it down and squeezing it into a crushed mess. The man’s expression kept shifting between concern and disgust, then relaxed somewhat as Berat finished the bottle. He spoke with an authoritative tone.
“Shut up, don’t say anything. I don’t care, we’ve all been there. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.” Berat nodded shakily, still struggling to form words. His vocal cords quivered, his mouth and tongue wouldn’t cooperate. He looked around. People were staring, then averting their eyes. He understood that he had to leave.
“Th—Thank—,” Berat sputtered.
“You’re welcome, now go.” The man interrupted, caterpillar eyebrows angled downwards.
Berat gulped, nodded, then hastily walked away. He reached for his phone. 14:56.
“Shit,” Berat thought, hurriedly calling his mother. It rang, then rang some more, then displayed “00:00”.
A feminine voice spoke on the other side of the line. It was his mother’s. Her shaky voice dripped with worry and fright.
“Berat? Where are you? Are you alright?“
“I’m— Yeah— Yeah, I’m— I’m fine, anne. I’m at the bakery. Look, we’ll talk— We’ll talk in a bit, okay? I’m coming back.”
“Aman tanrım!9 Berat! I was—Ugh! Just get back here, Berat! I was worried sick!”
“I—I know! I know that! I—”
“I” nothing! Get back here!”
Click.
Berat’s stomach sank with guilt and shock, but rose with motivation. His mind spoke with itself.
“Another investigation, Berat?”
“I suppose.”
“So be it.”