ÖZLÜ, Tezer

Cold Nights of Childhood

…..
The warmth embracing us. The cold nights descending. And the stars those nights bring to the skies. This world that two people joined in perfect union can set atremble. This union, that gives itself over to eternity, to existence, to all those with whom we share it, now and in the ages still to come.

…..
The boulevard that starts at Saraçhanebaşi goes as far as Edirnekapi. In the middle is a wide footpath bisected by a row of oaks. Red and green trams run along either side.

…..
During those autumns, winters, springs and summers we’re still children. But in place of childhood joy, there’s a strange disgruntlement, a seeping misery. A growing unease about our teacher parents, and the narrow houses of our Muslim neighbourhoods, about our church school’s Catholic atmosphere, and its nuns’ peculiar and – to us – incomprehensible behaviour, and the lack of other teachers, other ways of learning, that might give our thoughts direction, might help us make sense of the lives awaiting

…..
All week long, we count the days, maddened by anticipation. Enough to last us the whole week. The waiting. The jealousy. The excitement. The first dance. The thrill of the embrace. The taste of stolen kisses.

…..
Thoughts of death chase after me. Day and night, I think about killing myself. My reasons unclear. To carry on with life, or to die – either will do. A vague disquiet, nothing more.

…..
I want to write. But I keep getting pulled into the world outside. I want to wander down these streets and avenues, drinking in everything I see, making new discoveries, watching these people who remain strangers to me, all around me, this unquenchable life that I so long to take into my heart.

…..
Year follows year, grey and wet, cold and damp. Darkness descending early. Nights spent longing for the male bodies that refuse to grant permission to be known. Nuns in black. Masses. Houses that never get warm.

…..
Bunni loves old clothes. She won’t wear anything new. There’s a green silk costume that she’s kept packed away for sixty years, bringing it out only for special occasions. Her eyes are blue-grey. It’s been seventy years since she last slept with a man. She loves life. Nothing interests her more than her own funeral

…..
A wind blowing off the Bosphorous passes through my hair. The aroma of nature floating up from the yellow and orange leaves on the ground. The most beautiful scent I have ever known. He’s in there, mixed with it. Dancing with life.

…..