“Ah! My baby girl. My baby girl is now a mother. She’s grown up to be a mother …” And so my wife is a mother, too, she is all grown up.

Now we are in Istanbul. My son is seven years old and he’s a real live wire. When we are alone together, I always keep an eye on him, if only out of the corner of an eye. Sometimes he gets into some dangerous situations and this worries me. The other day I notice him going into the bathroom while I am working. There is something in his hand. Getting up I silently go after him. The bathroom door is ajar. Through the crack I can see what he is doing. For a short while I watch him. He is filling a bag with something and taking something out. Suddenly his head turns and he sees me. I am caught. Opening the door all the way he says with resentment in his voice:

“Dad, you need to stop being like this, I’m grown up now.”

Silently I go back to my room. My son has told me ‘I have grown up.” Which means I can die …

5

The Weight of Your Coat

The 1970s and I’m in middle school. Probably a Saturday. All day a little truck drives through town playing an announcement from a loudspeaker that echoes over the steppes: “Come one, come all. Neşet Ertaş and surprise musical guests performing tonight in the Avanos Yeni Cinema. Tonight in our cinema, Neşet Ertaş!” Though students were forbidden to go there at night, I always found a way to get in. And I just have to see Neşet Ertaş. My usual ploy does the trick: I go into the cinema with a case of soda and I stay put. The place is packed to the gills. My uncle and his friends are sitting up front so I have to keep out of sight. I plant myself somewhere in the back and eagerly wait for Neşet. First come the musical guests, a woman and a middle-aged man sing musical arrangements. Not many people seem all that interested. The musicians are quick to finish. My eyes are glued to the wings. Someone comes out and places a wooden chair in the middle of the stage. A little later Neşet walks over to the chair with his saz pressed to his chest and his shoulders hunched. In his suit and his bright pointy shoes and his Ayhan Işık mustache, he is still a young man. Taking a bow, he sits down. He sings two or three folk songs. The crowd is up on its feet. But Neşet looks a little uncomfortable. He stops and says those words I would hear 40 years later in a open air theater in Istanbul:

“I am the ground beneath your feet, a slave to your hearts. So allow me to take off this jacket.”

Taking off his jacket, he drapes it over the back of the chair. Now he’s free.