Derda stood up and yelled, “Today, you have been slain for Oğuz Atay, sons of bitches! For Oğuz Atay!”
Then he turned around in place and ran to the door, knocking over chairs as he went. He pointed his gun and yelled “Out of the way! Out of the way! Fuck you!” at the people who’d gathered outside of Çorak. The people scattered and Derda started to run, not knowing where he was going. When he heard a police siren, he turned into the first dark street he saw.
That night, Derda ran until morning. It was a miracle that he wasn’t caught, because all the police in Istanbul were after him.
By some coincidence or twist of fate, all the streets he went down led him to the overpass where Saruhan sold pirated books. In the first light of day, he went up the steps like King Kong climbing up the Empire State Building, and at the top he saw the clock seller. He’d come early that morning for some reason. Their eyes met and the clock seller nodded his head in greeting. Then he turned away and started setting the alarm of the clock in his hand.
Derda dropped to the ground where Saruhan would set up his sales point and he leaned back against the guardrail and stretched out his legs. It was the first time for hours that he’d stopped moving. His hand went to one pocket. Then to the other. He was looking for cigarettes. He looked up and called over to the clock seller.
“You got a cigarette?”
The clock seller looked up. “Hang on.” He set the clock in his hand on display and walked over to Derda while he stuck his hand in the pocket of his raincoat. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Then when the man was two steps from Derda, he pulled out a revolver from his other pocket and pressed it up against the head of the boy, who was still seated on the ground.
“Lie down,” he said, calmly. As if he were telling him to lie down and have a little nap.
Derda did as he was told and got down on the ground.
Derda, having been to all corners of Istanbul that night in one form or another, had one more question as he was arrested by the undercover police assigned to the university environs.
“Well, are you going to give me a cigarette or not?”
Even as he was still completing his deposition to the police, before he’d even left the presence of the prosecutor, Derda’s story was being printed in all the newspapers and broadcast on all the television stations. The man with the beard whom he had killed had been one of the most prominent journalists in all the country. And the others, the injured ones they were trying to keep alive in the hospital, were two writers. Two writers of novels. The fat man wasn’t of any particular note, but the one with glasses practically ate prizes for dinner. So everyone wanted to learn every detail. First and foremost the question was: Was this attack in any way connected to terrorism?
At first, the deposition Derda gave the police seemed so ludicrous that they were convinced he must be a terrorist. But with the details he gave them, the tattoos on his fingers, and the clarity in his confession to the point that he himself led them to new developments in the case, they finally came to believe what he said and they accepted his testimony.
“I,” Derda had told them, “I shot them for Oğuz Atay. I don’t know who they were. I didn’t care. I was looking for a writer to shoot, or a journalist. They were there. I pulled the trigger and shot them.”
“But who is Oğuz Atay?” a policeman close to retirement asked him. Derda was handcuffed at the wrist but still he jumped to his feet. “You asshole!” Two policemen behind him pushed him down by the shoulders and forced him to sit down and shut up. Then one of them asked, “What does this have to do with Oğuz Atay?”
“Do you know why Oğuz Atay died, do you know? From grief! And who drove him to despair? Who made him so depressed? Everyone alive then who didn’t care about him. If you don’t believe me, go and read all his books. Then go read about his life. I shot those bastards to get revenge for him.”
“Well, do you regret your actions in any way?” they had asked him.
“If they have no connection to Oğuz Atay, I might feel some regret.” Then Derda stopped and thought.
“But actually, no, shove it, I don’t. Because everyone who lived at that time and knew about Oğuz Atay and didn’t see what was happening to him, no matter who they are, they’re guilty. So I don’t regret it or anything like that. Do you know what I do regret, though? I thought those two bastards were dead when I left.”
“And what is your connection to Oğuz Atay?”
Derda smiled at the question.
“What do you mean, what is your connection? We’re the Oğuz Turks!”
This response immediately engaged their renewed interest in the inquest. The police were excited to
