At the end of the day, Derda, sometimes with Remzi, sometimes alone, returned to the neighborhood where his cemetery house stood. He had to wake up even earlier now to carry out his five-year-old duty of washing and tidying around the tomb. For the first two years he’d been genuinely afraid that the man in the long robe would come back. But in later years the man’s face began to fade from his memory. Eventually all that was left was the tomb. The fear that had made him start washing the tomb had long since crumbled and disappeared. Now Derda didn’t see it any differently than breathing. It had become a sort of habit. A type of dependence that didn’t do anyone any harm. Maybe if his case had been brought to the attention of some committee of professors, he’d have been able to identify with their explanation of his behavior. A short series of words starting with “obsessive” and ending with “compulsive.” But Derda wasn’t brought into the presence of anyone, besides the tomb, that is. And to tell the truth, he never felt anything remotely like presence or peace of mind except for when he was cleaning that tomb. Maybe he really did see it as compensation. Compensation for stealing someone else’s money while burying the pieces of his chopped-up mother.
“I really got off cheap,” he’d say sometimes, looking at the tombstone. He’d been talking to the tombstone since he was thirteen. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. God, his dad, his mother, or maybe to himself. Maybe he talked to it because it was just a stone. A marble stone. And maybe Derda talked to a marble stone because he was so totally alone. For three years, every morning.
He planted flowers for every season. But he stayed clear of planting anything in the grave bed. He planted a row of daisies in front of the tomb. Who knows what the family of the deceased lying under the tombstone thought when they came and saw the flowers. But Derda never even saw them once, because he’d finish cleaning in the early hours of the morning. Then he’d stay as far away from the tomb as possible, in the farthest corners of the ever-expanding cemetery. Always in the pursuit of bread. In the mornings, he’d always return and ask, “How are you?” But he had to supply the conversational material himself: “I’m fine.” Then he’d continue for himself, “I’m not bad myself. I got a bit of work yesterday. And so, you see, last night I didn’t go to bed hungry. Do you like the daisies?”
Derda had to answer for the marble stone every time. And every time he left he said, “See you tomorrow.” No one was aware that he’d formed a sort of friendship with a stone. But anyway, who was there to know about it? He was too scared to go see his dad. He thought that maybe he’d lead them to him, the men with the long robes, and they’d hurt him. But over time it became easier to be patient. He’d be patient and wait for the day when his dad got out of prison and came home. Five years had passed, five years for Derda to become a machine made for waiting. First he waited for the man in the long robe, then he waited with a yearning for his father. Waiting, he acquired the aspect of a patient stone himself. A white stone, a patient stone, a white and patient piece of marble.
“Is he always like that?”
“What?” asked Saruhan.
Derda was looking at the spread of alarm clocks set out for sale nearby. To be more precise, although he was looking at it, he was actually listening to it. Some twenty randomly set alarm clocks didn’t leave one molecule of air undisturbed by their electronic cacophony. The man at the stand sat above them reading a newspaper like he didn’t have ears. It was as if the clocks didn’t even exist in the same space-time continuum as he did.
Saruhan knew who Derda was looking at.
“Him? That guy’s crazy. A few times we practically came to blows, he’s a real wild card. The bastard must be mentally ill. He sets those clocks like some sort of maniac and then just sits there from morning till night.”
“How can you stand it?”
Saruhan laughed. He showed him the headphones dangling from his overcoat’s pocket.
“With these. I listen to music. The batteries just never fucking die. I’d pimp your mom on it. I tell you, even if I had some cash I wouldn’t go up to the guy and see how much he’s asking. He never sells anything anyway.”
The man in front of the clock stand flipped the page of his newspaper and, feeling the others’ eyes on him, nodded in Saruhan’s direction. Saruhan laughed.
“Nothing, nothing!” he said. “We were just saying how nice they sound.” Then he turned back to Derda.
“What’s Abdullah doing?”
“He said he was going over to collections. He told me to wait here. Who knows when he’ll come back.”
“Now that guy’s crazy in a totally different way. Let me tell you something, Derda. Thing is, everyone and everything is crazy. Take this job, for example. What
