“I’ve been good for the past couple days. In fact yesterday I even had two bowls of chicken noodle soup. Though I shouldn’t put this down to the wife’s cooking. I think it’s because of the serum you gave me. I think that’s what helped.” He pauses for a moment. “But today I couldn’t sleep at all from the pain. I was a wreck in the morning.”

“We’ll take care of that. That’s easy. I’ll give you a shot now.”

“But I understood yesterday, doc. Yesterday I thought I was going to get up. If only I wasn’t so nauseous. And then now and then there’s this pain. Otherwise I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. That’s what I keep telling you but you won’t believe me.”

I give him a shot.

I take a sip of the coffee they brought me. He’s a little better now that the pain is gone.

Now I should drop the bombshell:

“So when are we going to eat some tava?”

“Don’t you say? I can’t tell you how ashamed I am about that. You know?”

“No, I don’t, but tell me if you’re not in the mood, otherwise I can have Mithat make some.”

A little riled up and angry, he says:

“Oh give it up already, doc. You think I would actually let you eat Mithat’s tava?” Ok, now I got him going. Animated, he went on: “If God wills it I’ll be up on my feet. Then you’ll have your tava. Now the sisters here could make you some but it wouldn’t be the same without my touch. They never get the right mix of tomatoes, pepper and garlic. And you know how I treat the meat first. Lamb. Slightly fatty …”

As I slowly sip my cup of coffee, he tells me all about his recipe for tava …

*

I have come out to the front of the health clinic. Waiting for the bus to Ankara. Behind me are the silos of the Land Goods Office. Tractors and trucks are lined up in front of them. All loaded with wheat. The final days of summer. Harvest time. The drivers are quietly waiting, lying on their backs in the shadows of the wheels.

I am going to Ankara and I haven’t told anyone. In the evening I’ll have dinner at the club. Maybe I’ll see Behçet then I’ll stop by and see Oktay. Poetry. Rakı.

Someone is racing over to me. It’s our custodian Kerim. One eye doesn’t see too well—congenital microcephalous. I am really fond of him. In a panic he comes over to me but with his typical restraint, he says:

“There’s a funeral, hocam. The prosecutor is asking for you. He is wondering if you were in your office.”

My Ankara dream goes up in smoke.