“So, you’re going to shoot that guy. For me.”
Derda didn’t get it.
“What?” he asked. There was still a smile on his face.
“That guy called Hanif. You’re going to shoot him.”
That time he got it. That moment of clarity was the moment the bridge ended and Istanbul made everything ugly once again. Even Derda.
“Yes sir, brother.”
Israfil chuckled and lowered his fist onto Derda’s knee.
“Good for you, man.”
Israfil laughed again.
“Hey, man, what’s your hurry? Wait at least a second there, we’re on our way.”
Derda was rubbing his tattoos through his gloves with his fingertips. Just a little bit longer, he said to himself. To Oğuz Atay.
“There’s just a little bit longer, anyway,” said Israfil. Derda smiled.
They turned onto a dirt road leading to the vineyard covering the slope across from them, and they stopped at a gate with iron spikes that loomed before them. Israfil opened the garden gate with a remote control he slipped out of his pocket, and the Mercedes pulled inside. The first thing Derda heard was the barking, then he saw the slobber smeared across the windows. Two leaping black dogs running alongside the slowing car were looking at Derda like they wanted to kill him.
“Those are my babies,” said Israfil.
When the car stopped, the dogs ran to Israfil’s door. They were so impatient to be under their master’s control that they were butting into each other, trying to get ahead.
Derda got out of the car and looked first at the two-story house, then at the man in the black suit coming out of the house’s French doors.
“Brother Tayyar, we’re here!” yelled Israfil, as he stroked the dogs’ heads with his palms. Derda didn’t recognize Tayyar. For one, he wasn’t wearing a long robe, and he didn’t have a beard covering his face like a veil. But Tayyar didn’t take his eyes off the boy; he thought that for sure he knew that face from somewhere. But from where? Anyway, there was no hurry. It would come to him eventually. Whatever else, they had two days together before them. Two days that they’d spend together, face to face, at the house. Two days out in the country, at this house, to teach Derda how to use a gun. The closest person to the house would have to spend an hour and go a hundred kilometers from the highway out on the horizon to get there.
“Look, this is Derda.”
Israfil was holding the boy by his shoulders and pulling him to the steps going up to the front door.
“He’s like a brother to me,” he was saying, with a wink at Tayyar. Tayyar’s bulging physique covered half the front door. Derda shook Tayyar’s outstretched hand.
Israfil spoke again.
“And this is our brother Tayyar.”
Tayyar didn’t let go of the hand in his and looked into Derda’s eyes in silence. The boy didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t well pull his hand away. It was like his hand was buried inside firm, dense, flesh. They seemed clamped together by their hands and their frozen, staring eyes. Finally, Israfil untangled them. He put one hand on each of their shoulders.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
They went inside. In the house’s ample living room there were two couches, two big coffee tables, at least six easy chairs, two or three televisions, and a round dining table with chairs around it. That was as much as Derda could see in his first two steps inside. He couldn’t be exactly sure of the numbers or of how big the living room was. It looked like there was just too much furniture. Like everything already had its spare lined up next to it.
“Derda, have a seat, I’ll be right there,” said Israfil. Then he walked deep into the living room, went up, and was lost from sight. Only then did Derda realize where the stairs to the second floor were. Only when he saw Israfil disappear from view after going up two stairs.
Tayyar hadn’t yet spoken. “Sit down, let’s see now.”
Derda pulled his eyes from the spot where Israfil had disappeared and looked at the couch Tayyar was pointing to. He took two steps and sat down. Tayyar took his hands out of his pockets, spread open his jacket, and displayed two butts of two pistols at his waist.
“Where do I know you from?”
“Me? I don’t know,” said Derda.
“You ever been to Çemendağ?”
“No.”
“Anyway, we’ll figure it out,” he said, sitting down on the couch opposite Derda. He spread his arms out like wings and leaned the back of his head back against the couch and threw one leg over the other. His eyes, like a net made of iron, fixed Derda in their trap.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Celal,” answered Derda.
“Celal? That’s right, Israfil mentioned him. Just out, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to remember where I know you from, just give me a minute. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Derda didn’t want to calculate the months and make things any more complicated than they needed to be. From the very first moment he’d seen him, he’d felt the crushing pressure of Tayyar’s jet black eyes. Like twin pistols. Like he was under the weight of reinforced concrete. After he answered a question, he quickly lowered his head and his eyes. He couldn’t get free of the weight of the iron net. At the same time, he was thinking about why he could possibly know Tayyar. If I’d seen that man before, I’d definitely remember him, he said to himself. He didn’t hear Tayyar’s questions. Because at the time he was talking to himself.
“Any at all?” Tayyar was saying, this time raising his voice.
Derda looked up all of a sudden. “Any at all what?” he asked.
“Any clue! Do you have any clue about what you’re going to do, I said.”
“Yes, brother,” said Derda. “There’s this guy …”
“What guy?”
“A guy called Hanif the Trashman.”
“And what is it that you’re going to do to him?”
“I’m going
