The One Who Pierces Snow

You lived in a similar dilapidated, concrete apartment building across from mine, our fifth-floor bedroom windows looking at one another. No one ever spoke to you. I had never spoken to you. There were rumors. Things our mothers said.

That there was something trapped in your head that made your parents suffer, Auntie Fadik said to the other women and to my mother, tapping the side of her head with a cigarette. That you were too hungry and for more than just food, said Auntie Emine stirring a copper cezve of bubbling Turkish coffee. That your father had to drive it out of you by any means possible because the poor man was already walking hunched down, searching for his face on the pavement of our neighborhood. “Don’t allow your daughter to talk to her,” said Auntie Sema, ruffling my curls before my mother commanded me back to watch the kids. “You never know where she’ll put her mouth or hands.”

“Kar-de-len,” I said, lying awake in the dark. Again, hoping you might hear your name coming from my lips through the concrete. I got out of my bed and walked to the window, as I had done so many times before, and your light remained off. I imagined you sleeping, arms tucked underneath your pillow, your t-shirt bunched up, exposing your smooth skin,your hair poured across the sheet like black ink.

An urge in my body ruptured silence.

Then there was light. The desk lamp illuminated your body in a dim, amber glow. You walked to the oval mirror and reached for your reflection, touching the surface as if to make sure that the girl inside and the girl standing in front of it were one and the same.

Over the past years, I watched you dance until you collapsed on the floor, saw your father pull his belt and beat you with the buckle. I saw you shatter two mirrors just like this one. I saw you talk to your walls and paint your lips red before going to bed. I cried with you when you ripped out clumps of your black hair and laughed with you when you spat on the heads of passersby, because you were not allowed to leave the house until the bald spots grew new hair.  My feelings for you grew from childish curiosity to a longing that made me want to explode into tiny pieces of confetti.

But you backed away from the mirror and turned around and looked into my window. I pushed the lace curtain aside and showed myself. When you lifted your arm to open your window, I opened mine.

The cold December wind did not affect me. I was not cold. I was ember, Kardelen. The moon above your building disappeared behind white clouds, and the night became a pale blackness.

And then, the first snow of winter fell. As if we had been friends all along, you waved at me, revealing a smile that extinguished the sadness from before. I smiled and waved with both arms.

You stretched out your arms, your palms facing the sky. When you pulled your hands back and examined them, the smile on your face died as if you had lost what you had found only seconds ago. To keep you at the window, I gathered the fresh snow on my windowsill, packed it into a snowball and presented it to you. A flicker of a smile formed on the corner of your mouth and I threw the snowball. It fell halfway between our buildings. You stretched yourself, your body hanging out of the window, to watch it fall. Flakes of snow gathered on the crown of your head.

Then, holding on to the window frame, you lifted your right knee on the windowsill then your left one and stood up. You filled the window with yourself, your hair flitting like the wings of a blackbird against the white night and jumped.

*

I was on my way home from school when I saw Erol and Murat toying with Hamid at the playground. For whatever reason, Hamid sought out the company of those two assholes. They bullied Hamid, pinched his nipples because he had more tits than his older sister, or called him ibne for sucking his thumb. Despite what they had done to him when he was unconscious, Hamid continued to allow them to play the Rüya game on him.

It was a game some of us played during recess, hidden behind a corner from the supervision of a teacher. We took turns.The person to depart would take in a deep breath and hold it, standing against a wall while another one pushed against the chest of the fainter. Soon eyelashes fluttered and eyes rolled white, leading us into a mute chorus of laughter at the collapsing and spasming body.

I always went last. It was the reassurance of having seen one uncontrollable body after another one, folding and falling into themselves that gave me the courage to let go. They did it for the thrill of the first moments of awakening, the senseless loss of reality.

I did it for the visions of you.

Even if they only lasted a couple of seconds, you would find me during those moments of unconsciousness and run your fingertips over my face like a holy person. I would always come to myself in the same way: fighting the opening of my eyelids, my legs twitching, my teeth hypersensitive as if I had chewed on foil, my lips pressed together so that I might not utter your name, the traces of your touch burning on my skin as real as real life, anxious to go back home to my window, to yours, Kar-de-len.

I scurried past the playground and crossed the street, pulling my neck as far down as possible.

“Hey.” It was Hamid. I ignored him and kept walking.

“Are you deaf?” Erol’s deep voice felt like a wet slap on my cold cheeks.

“Come over here. Look what Erol and Murat got,” Hamid insisted.

I stopped. If I ignored them, Erol and Murat would take this as an invitation to hunt me. I would look at whatever Hamid had to show me, keep quiet and then leave.

Easy.

The city had tried to beautify the playground by planting a few shrubs and bushes, but it was infested with used needles and condoms. There was a sandbox filled with dog feces, an oxidized metal slide, and a tire swing spotted with bird droppings. This was the part of town known as the Kanakenviertel, where only a handful of Germans lived among Turkish immigrants.

“Hold it up, Hamid,” Erol said, sitting on his BMX bike, his bomber jacket unzipped, one foot on the pedal and the other on the sandbox ledge. Hamid with a mirthless grin held up the pages of a smudged and cockled magazine like a ring girl.

“Take a good look,” Erol said.

I had seen such magazines before, their pages erupting with the color of flesh. My father hid them behind the stacked toilet paper in the stairwell bathroom. Sometimes I mimicked their faces, mouths open like hungry baby birds, eyes fogged with pain. The downy hair on my thighs would prickle and stand.

I looked up. I would have looked even if Erol did not order it. It was frightening, magnetic, humiliating. How could anyone look away?

“Do you want some of that?” “No,” I said, avoiding Erol’s gaze.

Hamid had put his arms down and was now turning the clammy pages, his eyes hungry and terrified. If it had been just the two of us, I would have joined him, licking the tip of my right index finger to leaf through the pages, our heads knocked against one another, our breaths heavy with each new image.

For a moment I thought about snatching the magazine out of his hand and tearing it apart until nothing was left of the twisted bodies.

“I think you do,” Murat prodded Erol and laughed.

Murat was a freak of nature – sixteen years old and already six feet three inches tall. After watching Rocky he decided to become the first Turkish heavyweight WBA champion. He always wore a red bandana because he confused Rambo with Rocky.

“I don’t think anyone would fuck you with that ugly face anyway. At least not for free,” Murat said.

“That’s not true,” Erol said. “Hamid can have her. It might make him straight.”

They both laughed while Hamid sucked on his thumb and gawked at the pages. I tightened my grip around my backpack straps, my fingernails cutting into my palms. I wanted to beat the shit out of Hamid because he was pathetic and disgusting. All I wanted was to run to our street and search for pieces of you. Even if it was just a single strand of hair, a nail, a tooth.

“Touch his tits,” Erol ordered, pointing at Hamid. “No,” I replied.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want Hamid to touch your tits?”

“I don’t have time for your games, Erol. I have to go home,” I said, my heart beating like a trapped canary inside my chest.

“You’re going nowhere,” Murat said. “Do what Erol says, or you’ll get a taste of my fist.” He pulled the ends of his Rambo bandana as if he was tightening it and then punched his palm. Erol rolled back and forth on his bike, not taking his eyes off me.

“Hamid,” Murat said. “Show your tits.”

Hamid looked between Murat and me unsure of what to do. “It’s okay,” Erol cooed. “Go on.”

Hamid shrugged and without hesitating unzipped his windbreaker and pulled up his sweater to his chin, exposing a potbelly and two brown nipples.

“Come on,” Hamid shouted. “Get to it. I’m cold.”

This was harmless, right? Just a friendly pinch. A lot of teenagers my age were horsing around with one another. This was not going to be any different.

I took Hamid’s boy breast between my thumb and forefinger and gave it a quick honk. Erol and Murat were hysterical, slapping their thighs and wiping their tears. Hamid, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, pulled his sweater down and went back to the porn.

“That was good, really good,” Erol said, recovering from his laughter. “We could disappear in the bushes, and I could squeeze yours.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” Murat said, nervous and confused.

“Shut up,” Erol said and got off his bike. “Watch my bike but don’t sit on it.”

He took four steps and stood in front of me. There was no one at the park. The junkies and secret lovers would come out at night, and Hamid began to walk backward toward the street, the rolled up magazine sticking out of his jacket pocket.

I recited the only prayer I knew and did not understand – Kelime-i şehadet.

Because I could not remember the rest after eşhedü en la ilahe illallah, I began to pray to you. Kar-de-len.

“If you want, I can make you faint and play with you that way. I won’t hurt you, promise.” The stench from his decaying tooth made me dizzy. “I’m an expert. I’ve been squeezing tits for quite some time now. Right here, behind that park bench in the bushes,” Erol pointed behind me. “After school, Kardelen used to wait for me there. The first time I saw her, she was picking up needles from the ground. I walked up to her and told her she’s going to catch cancer or some other shit, if she didn’t drop them,” Erol paused to laugh. “Then the dumb bitch said, ‘I’m already dead. A little bit of cancer isn’t going to make me deader.’ Then she told me to come over to her. I did. She took my hand and put it underneath her shirt. She didn’t wear a bra.” He licked his lips and turned his head to Murat then back to me. “She just let me have her and then she got up and ran away. The next day I came back, and there she was. Apparently she fucked everyone. It’s too bad she’s–”

I shoved him. I shoved him as hard as I could. He staggered and I turned around to run. But Murat caught me by my backpack and spun me around.

“Pick it up, you bastard,” Erol said to Murat, pointing to his BMX. Murat dragged me like an untrained puppy on a leash to where the bicycle laid in the sandbox and picked it up with his free hand.

“So you want it the hard way,” Erol said, his face a strange excitement like that one time when he set Felix’s pet rat on fire.

“Let’s go,” Erol announced.

He was walking toward the bushes behind the park bench. Murat hesitated for a moment, but then let go of my backpack to wrap his large fingers around my arm. He leaned the bike against the bench and walked me into the bushes. I did not fight back. I only wanted it to be over.

I felt the presence of my body in that moment, the hardening of my nipples, the acid in my stomach, the arches of my feet, Murat’s hand on my arm as if it lay on my bare skin, Erol’s rotting breath filling my lungs. But I could not see the end of it. Time was trapped and so was I.

“I’m going to make sure you’ll never forget this day,” Erol said, the bits of spit in the corners of his mouth fluttering in the wind. “Get on your knees.”

“Come on, man. She’s going to piss herself. That’s enough, right? We had our fun,” Murat said, the white of his eyes a vast field of terror.

“Weakling.”

“Dude, I just don’t want any trouble.”

“Murat, please,” I pleaded. “Our mothers know each other.” It was quiet.

We all were quiet for a moment as if the acquaintance of our families obliged us to feel a sense of shame like the games we played, boys and girls, in the kids’ room with the lights turned off on Saturday nights, while our fathers played Rummikub and our mothers gossiped.

I heard the leaves rustle and the branches bend. But no dog barked in the distance when Erol smacked me across the face.

“On your knees I said.”

Murat placed his large hand on my shoulder and pushed me down. “Say aaahhh,” Erol said, unzipping his pants.

I pulled my head back as far as I could and head-butted his dick. He doubled over, cupping his crotch. Murat let go of me and I ran.

I ran without turning around to see how close Erol might be. I wanted it to surprise me if it happened. It hurts less when it is unexpected like a firing squad execution, if you are lucky enough to be blindfolded.

I ran past my street down to the clearing, where the river ran between small woodlands. It was a place I often visited, especially when the snowdrops were in full bloom and covered the riverbank in a white blanket. I would sit on the cool and damp earth and contemplated their resilience. After all, they were your namesakes – Kardelen.

A thin layer of frost covered the ground, making the earth as dismal as the sky. I ran across the dead grass and made my way to the riverbank. If Erol found me there it would be a good place to hurt, to bleed, to die.

I stopped and squeezed my eyes shut. My heart raced. When all I heard was my heavy breathing after some time passed, I opened my eyes and turned around. I stood and waited, alone.

I picked up a long, slim branch and lashed it against a tree trunk. Screaming and crying, I flogged the trunk, my backpack slipping down to the crook of my elbow and pulling my jacket off my shoulders. Exhausted, I fell on the ground. My chest felt like a sack of stones and it was not just my heart that ached, but all of my organs. Even the part of you I had kept hidden from everyone.

I wiped my nose on the ribbed cuff of my jacket sleeve and resting my head against the tree, I felt my lashes flutter, my eyes rolling white. I did not fight it.  Soon the snowdrops would blossom.

“I’ve never seen you here.”

You were there, hovering over me. “It’s my secret place,” I said.

You pointed behind me and said, “Mine is further down. There is a small cave opening on the bottom of the riverbank. I hide there and listen to the river.”

“What are you hiding from?”

You sat down next to me and took my hand into yours. “From the same things you’re hiding from.”

We looked at each other and the river continued to run. “Is it true what they say about you?” I asked.

“Some yes, some no,” you said, smiling.

And then, you leaned in and holding your black hair away from your face kissed me. Your lips were warm and tasted like the earth on a summer afternoon right before the rain, before everything went dark.

I fought my eyelids from opening, my legs twitched underneath the damp earth, the inside of my mouth a jar of coins, my lips still warm from your kiss, inside my chest the need to run home to my window to look into your empty one.

When my eyes finally opened, the night had already broken into the gray sky and my legs and hands, now still, were burning with coldness.

*

It has been thirty-eight days, your soul still in transition, Kardelen. But here I am with my class at the indoor pool for physical education class.

I watch Hamid jump off the ten-meter diving platform, both arms pressed to his side, his right hand pinching his nose, his body stiff as a brick. A couple of seconds later, his head emerges from the water like a sea lion.

“I didn’t even scream,” he says to me as he hauls himself out of the pool, his body a shiny mountain of jello.

Embarrassed and determined, I rush to the diving tower. My heart is not racing yet. I push Felix out of the way, who has one hand on the rail, and climb up the wet ladder, the knurled steps cutting into my soles. I do not look back or look down. When I reach the top, all I can see is the white metal framework of the pool’s ceiling. My body is suspended somewhere between above and below and before I can orient my senses to this new perspective, the two skinny lifeguards already hustle me close to the edge of the platform. I turn around. I change my mind because my heart is dynamite ignited. 

“I’m going back down,” I say, shaking my head and feeling the sting of tears in my chlorine-red eyes. I am worried my legs will not hold any longer and lose the last bit of energy to make the descent. Of course, I know the rules are strict and immutable: No matter what, once you are up there the only way down is to jump. But the lifeguards close around me, shout and hassle me. Why did I climb up if I was not going to jump? Could I not read? Did I not see the sign on the bottom of the diving tower?

I can hear them all as I approach the end of the diving platform—the lifeguards, my classmates behind me waiting for their turn, the others watching from below with their bent necks, laughing and shouting. Humiliated and helpless, my toes grip the rough edge of the concrete. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe I will faint, maybe I will fly. I look down.

The dark-blue water is still and unmoving.