The endlessly falling snow had covered the entire town in a warm and loving blanket. Where the high steps of the public library meet the street I have my back against the wall, waiting for the library to open. A little later the old concierge Yaşar Efendi walks past me and starts climbing the steps. I can feel him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The scrawny kid waiting at the library steps! Trailing two or three steps behind him, I am careful to keep the same pace. After dawdling on the doorstep, he unlocks the door with a massive key. He gives his shoes a good cleaning on the grated metal mat in front of the double-winged wooden door. The thing is I know all too well that he’s doing it just because I am there. Then he goes inside and stands beside the door. I rub my old wet shoes back and forth over the mat. In silence and with an unchanging expression on his face, he watches me. After staring for a while he must think I’ve rubbed enough because he disappears inside. Now I can go in. There’s no one else there. I go and sit down at the table by a window. I am half way through The Enchanted Island and my plan is to pick up where I left off. Taking the book off the shelf, I make for the table where the registration book is. Holding a bucket of coal beside the stove, Yaşar Efendi watches me. He’s searching for a reason to be angry with me but I haven’t made a mistake yet. I have done everything precisely the way he wants it to be done. I go over to my spot and oh, now that’s more like it. As I pull out the heavy chair, there is an unwanted squeak. Flashing me a reproachful look and shaking his head, Yaşar dumps coal into the stove. So be it, now I am reunited with my book. Soon the library warms up and the room is filled with noisy children shivering from the cold. A coughing, laughing, jostling crowd. They are all my friends. Swimming in their old jackets and stumbling about in their weak, little bodies, the kids plop down in the first chair they find and start to take in the surroundings. There is a swirling hum in the air that smells of shoes and wet socks. People come and go, open the door to look inside then disappear and the squeaking of the chairs picks up. Overwhelmed by the rising noise and jostling crowd, Yaşar Efendi momentarily disappears through a door to a small room off the main room. When the door opens with a squeak the ancient head librarian, Mehmet Bey, is standing there on the threshold.

He would then begin with the same line he used every time, which I will never forget, emphasizing every word and with the same tone of voice:

“You fill a glass with water. Fill it but it doesn’t overflow. Fill it to the brim and still it does not overflow. But one more drop and it does. Just one drop. Do you know what? One more drop and this glass overflows!”