I graduated from Nevşehir High school as a nationalist but when I started university as a student in Politics I became a socialist. The reason was simple: That blanket that wasn’t long enough for Huseyin’s mother.

*

In an act of hardheadedness that was unlike me, I scolded health director Kemal for asking me to write him a prescription for his older brother:

“Where is the man himself? I can’t do it unless I see him in person.” Annoyed, Kemal said: “He’s a little out of sorts, sir, hasn’t been out of the house for a week. Doesn’t go to work either.” Opting not to drag this out, I wrote out his prescription for Akiton. Registered it in my ledger: “Paranoid schizophrenia. Prescription was given. Policlinic no. 654.” I know the patient. Quilt maker Hamdi, I would always see him in his little shop on the main drag, his head bowed over a quilt. Lost in a world of colorful, embroidered quilts, he was a man who kept to himself. As Kemal left the room I said, hoping he would forgive me: “Tell your brother he should stop by and see me when he pulls himself together so that we can have a talk.”

A snowy day. I am trudging through the only street in town. Serkan has lit the gas stove and he’s waiting for me. There must be a patient inside. Serkan introduces him the moment I step inside, clearly trying to unload him on me:

“Hamid Abi is here, hocam. Kemal Abi’s brother.” So Hamdi the Quilter has decided to make an appearance.

“Welcome,” I say.

“Thank you,” he says, almost in a whisper.

A few telephone calls. The manager of the Post Office swings by for a glass of tea. A few patients from neighboring villages. Hamdi is still sitting there. Then he slowly opens up. I listen.

“Actually I came here to thank you. Sometimes I can cause problems for you … So thank you … For the medicine.”

Over the following days he pops in more often. Sometimes I make the tea if Serkan isn’t there. He obviously enjoys chatting with me. He is mostly sad about his wife leaving home, taking their only son with her. Quite often he brings them up. One day he comes to me with a large packet, which he gives me before he goes. It is a really beautiful quilt he has made himself. Sometimes he is nowhere to be seen, especially when he is having a “break down.”

At one point he was holed up in his shop for quite a while. He didn’t look good the last time I saw him. He was having more hallucinations, fits of delirium.

Around that time I went away to Izmir on an extended trip. Hamid spent some time looking for me. He asked Serkan. “He wasn’t looking very good, hocam,” says Serkan. The next day I was lounging in the afternoon when the new prosecutor sent for me … Someone has hanged himself … . We were off to a village some way outside of town. Apparently Hamdi hanged himself from a beam in a village vineyard house. I went and performed the autopsy. That night in the residence I couldn’t get to sleep. Hamid’s quilt was prickly. I folded it and put it away in the closet.