I shut the door forcefully. I had closed yet another door. There, I was relieved. I returned to the living room. I sat on my white couch and stretched out my legs. I picked up my newspaper from the coffee table on the left and glanced at the headlines. It detailed the rights workers were bound to lose under the new draft law. The analysis of the news was filled with the specifics of the bill and explanations of how these details would reflect on real life. Did I do the right thing by shutting the door in her face?
I opened the culture and arts section in the middle of the newspaper. It was my favorite page. Besides, today was Tuesday, the day my favorite poet published his column. Was it right to leave her outside? This poet was practically lost in books. Reading his articles, I would sometimes wonder, “Does he live inside novels?” I figured he had built a city of the mind for himself, where he would sometimes discuss the fate of the ducks in Central Park with Holden, sometimes listen to Raskolnikov’s regrets, and sometimes observe Anna Karenina. My eyes searched for the television remote; it was on the dining table. I was too lazy to get up. I returned to my newspaper. The poet had given his piece an objective title: “The scent of books versus the light of e-books.” A faint sound is coming from behind the door—is she crying? The author was dwelling on how books were the ornaments of homes and how looking at a bookshelf brought a sense of peace, while also asking what electronic device could possibly replicate the scent of an old book.
I left the newspaper on the coffee table. I slowly sat up and looked at the television. One of those ridiculous honey commercials had probably been looping for fifteen minutes. I stood up, walked to the dining table, and grabbed the remote. I didn’t turn the television off, but I lowered the volume. I wanted the illusion of other people in the house. If you turn it off, it’s harder to turn back on later.
I picked up the newspaper again. I moved to the three-seater couch and lay down. She had gotten really fat anyway, and besides, I showed it enough attention. “Though reading an electronic book provides great convenience, it cannot offer the heartfelt joy of a printed book. Isn’t the inability to read books in the dark a distinct beauty of its own? It forces you to turn on the light, to sacrifice your sleep. No matter what the book is about, the first lesson it teaches is sacrifice.” A Kemal Sunal movie was playing on the muted television. I figured a little smiling wouldn’t hurt. It would distract me, too. I got up and went to the table again. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. I looked at the screen of my phone. Ultimately, I paid it a great deal of attention until now. No, no, I made the right decision. I headed for the couch, but changed my mind halfway and walked to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door. I tipped the milk carton to my mouth and drank some. I had heard somewhere that milk was harmful. I lay down on the couch and watched Şaban Oğlu Şaban. May Kemal Sunal rest in peace. I picked up the newspaper. “And everyone knows that there can be no decoration more dazzling than rows of colorfully arranged books.” A warm breeze was blowing in through the open balcony door. My eyelids were drooping. The newspaper in my hand slipped toward the floor. I was too lazy to reach down and grab it. I turned on my side and continued reading the paper on the floor. “Civilization is the proliferation of unnecessary inventions. Civilization is when devices invented to save time end up stealing it.” I turned back to the television. I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I could no longer resist the weights tied to my eyelids. I fell asleep.
I woke up in fear. In my dream, Şaban from the movie was reading Puss in Boots from a book in his hand. Then, the book turned into a device. Şaban threw the book at the wall. From the shattered device emerged a cat. It wore torn boots on its feet. Other cats began pouring out of the broken device, too. Puss in Boots walked toward me. When it reached my feet, it unsheathed its claws, jumped at my collar, and spoke: We are hungry!
I was drenched in a cold sweat. My hair was plastered to my forehead. I looked around. It had gotten dark outside, and the honey commercial was back on the television. I ran to the bathroom and washed my face. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. A cold sore had broken out at the corner of my lip. I looked at the cold sore, then at the mirror. A poem by my favorite poet came to mind.
Mirrors; doors opening to the realm of symbols.
Mirrors, structures both manifest and hidden.
The calluses visible on one face,
The darkness on the other keeps everything a secret.
Dreams are mirrors opening to the realm of symbols;
Though the manifest may be absurd, truth lies in the hidden.
Without even drying my face on a towel, I ran to the kitchen. I grabbed the open milk carton, a few sausages, some cheese—whatever I could find. I opened the door. I went back and grabbed my keys from the coat rack. I opened the door again. I hurried down the stairs and stepped out of the building. I turned to the right. She wasn’t there. I walked further. I went down the garden stairs to the street. I checked under the parked cars. She was nowhere. I suppose she was deeply hurt by me; she had given up hope on me. She had left. Why should she have waited, anyway? It was dark outside. I reached into my pocket. I hadn’t brought my cell phone. Silently, I began to climb the stairs. I looked at the unkempt garden of bushes and small trees to my right. The lights from the apartments dimly illuminated the garden. By the time I reached the final step, I was exhausted and had given up hope. Once again, I had chased away something beautiful that had entered my life with my own hands; I had shut the door on her. Despite her innocent green eyes staring up at my face, I had said, “Enough, don’t expect any more attention, you’ve gotten really fat anyway,” and closed the door. In despair, I started walking up the stairs toward the apartment building door.
Just then, I saw a silhouette among the bushes. I approached slowly. Taking a step or two closer, I became certain. She was there. It was lying motionless. She was just lying there, stretched out on the soil. Cradled against her belly were exactly four kittens, stretched perpendicularly. They were nursing, almost devouring her. I immediately fetched a bowl from the cat house. I filled it with water and placed it near the kittens. Their eyes hadn’t even opened yet. Even their fur was sparse. Furthermore, they were tiny. In this state, they looked more like mice than cats. I placed the sausages and cheese right behind their mother. So she hadn’t been fat; she was pregnant. Seeing the mother and kittens feeding on what I brought filled my heart with peace.
As I left the cats alone with their food and climbed up to my silent apartment, a Persian proverb came to my mind: He who knocks on a door shall have his door knocked. My situation felt like the exact opposite. Even though I had closed the doors, the Owner of the door had made me a servant to the threshold. I climbed the stairs in peace. As I entered my apartment, I called out a greeting, “Selam.”
From the living room, a voice replied, “Aleyküm selam.”
I stepped inside in astonishment. On the television screen, Kemal Sunal was smiling at me.