His voice becomes one of the most beautiful the audience will ever hear.

*

Days just before the 1980 coup. Winter. A foul wind is blowing and everyone is at home or huddled in the coffeehouses. The 19th of February. It is the anniversary of the murder of Ulaş. We’re preparing for an illegal political rally in town. In the evening we’ll light tires and give speeches. We’re going over the plan. The kids have found several truck tires and they are wheeling them over now. Everything is ready. I’ll start chanting the first slogan:

“Brother, Ulaş! Your blood was not spilt in vain!”

Then we’ll roll the tires over to the statue in the square and set them on fire. And then, and then it’s up to God. We haven’t been all that discreet because the police have already picked up on us: they are “standing by.” After the evening call to prayer, we leave our meeting point and start racing toward the only public square in town. The police chase us before we even get to the chanting and the burning of the tires. Like baby partridges, we scatter in all directions. I sharply turn into a narrow road leading up a hill. Someone is right on my heels; if he reaches out, he’ll have me. He’s shouting:

“Stop running.”

The street gets steeper and though he is overweight he has no intention of letting me get away. Suddenly he has the back of my jacket. We both keep running. And I slip out of the jacket, leaving it dangling in his hand. I feel lighter as I fly up over the hill. Out of breath, he watches me go, holding onto my jacket. Speeding around the corner, I am gone. Now I am free.

*

It makes me angry to look at that old hospital jeep. It’s out of gas and we can’t get out to the villages to administer vaccinations. All our requests for gas are rejected. Dressed in a turtleneck, the local mayor comes to the ceremony for the April 23rd Children’s Holiday and he is defensive with me—indeed we were never on good terms. But why? The accountant tells me: “That’s not it, doctor, no other civil branch gets gas. It seems to be a matter of security, at least that’s what the commissioner kept telling me the other day.”

Chatting in the local club one evening, the agricultural minister tells me that their veterinarian is going off in the same direction to inoculate the dogs the next day. “Why don’t you hitch a ride with them?” he says and I jump at the offer.

In the morning I am standing next to health officer Erdinç, who is holding bags full of vaccinations, waiting for the agriculture minister’s Renault to arrive. Soon the car pulls up and I squeeze in beside an assistant in the front and the health minister makes it four in the back. During the journey, I keep shifting in my seat, always addressing the veterinarian as “doctor.”