They asked, “And who are these Oğuz Turks? This is an organization? How many of you are there?”
“Look, even I don’t know. I mean, I know that they’re out there somewhere, but who they are, how many people, I have no idea. But I see their symbol tagged everywhere.”
When they asked, “And what symbol is that?” Derda drew an A inside an O on a piece of paper. One of the policeman started to say, “But isn’t that …” but the other grabbed his arm to silence him and asked, “You made all the young people leave the meyhane. Why?”
“Oğuz Atay died in 1977. At that time, those people may not even have been born yet. Or maybe they were just kids. That’s why I let them go.”
“And where did you get your weapon?”
“From a man named Tayyar.”
“And where is he?”
“I buried him somewhere, but if you asked me where, believe me, I don’t even know. I mean I know where, but I couldn’t tell you how to get there.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to say?”
“I also shot a man called Israfil. Actually, I wasn’t going to shoot him, but he was there, so … But really, I wish I had thanked him, he brought me over the Bosphorus Bridge.”
“What else did you do?”
“I don’t know. I also beat up my dad. I smashed in his mouth and broke his nose.”
The prosecutor took especial interest in Derda’s case. He reviewed the police deposition and tried to figure out if the kid was mentally ill or not. But he couldn’t figure it out alone so he forwarded the case to a psychiatric clinic he knew. And there, too, the panel of highly educated professors was divided. Some thought Derda was the sole inhabitant living in a world of his own creation, while others decided he was nothing more than an ordinary killer. But some time later, when they learned how many pieces Derda had chopped up his mother into, and at what age he had done it, the opinions of the panel went from two to one. It was still too early to make a definite diagnosis, but it was apparent that Derda’s mental situation could not be that of a normally functioning, healthy individual. If nothing else, normal people who have normally functioning brains keep it to themselves or sue someone when faced with difficulty. They don’t go and gun people down.
The case was heard by the Juvenile Court, where each and every hearing was besieged by television reporters. The television channels aired documentaries about Oğuz Atay, and Tutunamayanlar was discussed in panel discussions. The same discussion was also alive and kicking in the divided psychiatric clinic. Some thought that while he lived, Oğuz Atay had indeed suffered injustices, but others thought that connecting such a thing to his death was impossible, and that his death had absolutely nothing to do with literature. If even for a brief interval, Oğuz Atay was so widely discussed that even the driver of the red truck heard his name on the radio and learned who that kid he’d picked up a while back had called “my dad.”
But then, after a while, the programmers realized that these and similar discussions weren’t garnering the viewership they once did, so they shifted their focus to Derda himself. They had guests on their shows to talk about the problems of illiteracy, about children who worked in cemeteries, and about childhood violence. And then, even if it had nothing to do with it, they talked about substance abuse and addiction. Because paint thinner and huffers are the poisonous words that paralyze a viewer on one channel.
“How could a name like Oğuz Atay go hand in hand with such a violent act? It’s hard to even believe. Just think about the state of our streets.” This type of sentiment was built up, then brought down. Everyone seemed to have an idea about Derda’s frightening imagination. Especially after everyone heard what Süreyya and Celal said to the cameras. Celal revealed all through his tears.
“He shot me! My only son, I hadn’t seen him for years and then he near well killed me! That’s just how the boy is, it’s just not right. I’m talking to those with experience here, bring me my wife, let me have a proper funeral for her. Every night she haunts my dreams.”
Only Isa refused to speak. He didn’t answer the questions of any newspaper journalist or TV reporter. As much as they pressed him, he pressed the words back down his throat. Maybe it was because the only person he was ever going to tell any story to was hidden behind all the people pressing the microphones in his face.
When they were released from the hospital, the fat man was left with only one eye, and the man with the glasses had lost his physical symmetry. He was going to limp to his dying day. And when they got out of hospital, both of them were in a hurry. To write their new books. One of them wrote A Single Bullet and the other Çorak Life. And both of them wrote on the first pages: In memory of Oğuz Atay. Because, as soon as they both could speak again, both the fat man and the man with glasses talked incessantly about their deep respect for Oğuz Atay. But they worried the people listening weren’t sufficiently convinced, so they dedicated their books to the man just to make sure. Of course, Çorak Life became a prize-winning novel. And of course, the book release party was held at Çorak. And as for the fat man, once again he didn’t receive the interest he might have hoped for.
But beyond these developments, the event that garnered the most attention was the funeral for the man with the beard. Anyone who had anything to gain by talking about his life, his writings, or by organizing readings of his work, each and every one
