Anastasia Milko
A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick
Chapter 4
The Bosporus is ready to devour
A few days later, around nine in the evening, the telephone rang. As soon as Kerem heard Mehmed call for him, he knew that there would be some bad news waiting for him. He lived now in a shabby room with five other men of different age, no one of them had families or friends outside the gang. They did not have a legal job either. They were obliged to carry out any assigned task by the boss. No surprise, in most cases it turned out to be some kind of fishy business, including alcohol and drug dealing, recruiting women from poor remote neighborhoods to work for their boss, or just begging in the crowds. The latter was primly for kids and teenage boys with pretty faces who could easily woo public sympathy. Kerem was appointed to beg with two other boys in different places every day for at least ten hours, he thought of it as being fun first, feeling strange vibes of freedom from his monotonous life he used to have before. The intoxicating joy of owning his own money at the end of a shift made him feel like a king. However, the joy of a new lifestyle had not been eternal and it began to be washing away.
Once, when Kerem finally arrived with his friend from a night shift at around two o’clock in the morning, they overheard some pitchy screaming in the apartment. They stood in fear and then saw their boss with a guard come out of their room, the guard was carrying one of new boys with some bruises on his young and pale face.
No one explained anything, and Kerem’s gut told him to stay out of this, minding his own business instead and trying to be as quiet and reliable as possible. During the drinking night they would have from time to time, Kerem could not but think of his little brother Can, even though he did try to steer clear off any thoughts attached to his family, his brother’s innocent eyes were fixed on Kerem’s inner conscience. He got a sharp sense that all his new friends were worthless pieces of nothing to the boss and even to each other. Everyone kept quiet and never touched upon what they had witnessed in the morning. It must have not been the first and only accident like that to happen in those walls.
The telephone rang and Kerem already knew that it was bad news coming about the boy beaten in the apartment the night before. They were to become partners for begging soon, but the boy must have done something wrong, he must have stolen or lied, or somehow stood in the way of a mighty figure in Istanbul, or attracted too much of attention. It was a riddle with no answer. Kerem had no idea but when he heard that the boy had “got missing” and never came home, he pretended to be surprised. He knew that neither a large crowd of policemen nor his so-called friends would help him escape now, he felt dead already and thought again of the family he exchanged for this horror-of-a-life. Having nothing to do, he got ready for a new shift with his neighbor, trying to put on a mask of carelessness and confidence. The day began.
Mr. Yussuf was on the edge of despair that day, the anguish of what had already happened and what the future might hold for his son, made him sick. His wife, to her own surprise, felt deep in heart that the road would bring her son back home, sooner or later he would appear at the porch and knock on the door like the prodigal son to her warm cuddle. The same assurance of a happy end came over little Can. He already managed to address Jesus a few times with his heart full of hope and belief that Jesus would spare his darling brother. It was still uncertain when it would happen and how, yet it was to come the best way possible. He had no doubt about it.
Indeed it is said that the sincere prayer of a child makes a tremendous difference in the life of the one for whom it is given.
The guardian angel was definitely on duty that day, staying close to Kerem this airless evening, willing to perform the Father’s will toward the lost soul mingled with the bad crowd. Cigarettes, alcohol for kids and already damaged adults, dirty jokes and the devil’s songs floating in the air. Kerem had already drunk more than was enough for his still growing body and forming mind. He dreamt of getting out of this fake independent and mature life, he would be the happiest boy on earth if there were a chance to get home to his cozy bed. But there was not such a luxury anymore. He was stuck with this gang. So far no one left the “family” on their own will, there would be no exception for him.
One of the oldies held out a plastic glass with something hot inside to make them have fun tonight and get into oblivion of a blurred mind.
‘Again? No, teşekkürler.’
‘What do you mean by this “hayır”?’
The man look perplexed at this sharp refusal. Kerem lowered his head and admitted feeling really bad. No sooner had the man decided to say something “funny” than Kerem felt nausea and with no chance to turn away vomit on his knees and got the man dirty too.