“We have troubled you with this, doctor, and so late in the evening.”

I mumble, “Of course not. No trouble. I’m just doing my job.”

The prosecutor lights a cigarette and speaks with the others about the accident, asking only brief questions. I look at the court clerk and the technician to say, “let’s get to it then.”

The old man says, “Stop and catch your breath, sit down and drink some of our ayran.” Turning to a woman in the corner, he says, “Quick, go and prepare a rinse.”

The boy in front of the pile of grain … Like a doll, plump and beautiful. Not a scratch or a cut on him. Pure and innocent. Only a thin strip of blood running from his nose to the corner of his mouth. I touch his face and his body. He looks just like my nephew.

Meanwhile the ceremony of the ayran continues.

“Let’s finish our work first. Maybe later,” I say.

“What? You can’t go on until you have your ayran … For the love of God … It’s your first time here,” says the old man. A little later I step over to the prosecutor, who is holding a glass of what they call a “rinse,” yoghurt mixed with water, whipped up into cloudy ayran.

The prosecutor must sense my surprise because he says with an odd look on his face: “These folks are like that, doctor. A guest comes and they forget the dead.”

I take a sip of ayran. The cause of death is clear. I say there is no need for a classic autopsy. The dark haired, rosy boy won’t go under the knife. I leave him in the courtyard with a thin stream of blood over his lips.

Winter

Evening. When I breathe I feel a crackling between my upper lip and my moustache. Frozen, it’s that cold. I dive into the deep, dark corridors of the Yücesoy Pasaj that sits in the middle of town like a monstrosity and which is still under construction even though the former mayor officially opened the building with all kinds of fanfare. I crouch over the stove at the entrance of head doctor Ferit Abi’s examination room on the second floor.

Ferit Abi is inside with a patient. When he finishes we plan to go to a farewell dinner for the notary. Outside is a middle-aged man with a fairly young wife and child, about seven or eight, who is moaning in her arms. Now and then she leans over the child and mops the sweat off his brow. The father is motionless as he looks at them.

A little later a patient comes out. “Welcome Ercan,” Ferit Abi says. “We’ll get going right after I see this patient here. You just warm up there.” And he steps back inside. Followed by the father, mother and child. I lose track of time as I drift off in the toasty heat.