ARTEMIS
In Musa’s library, Artemis was quite happy. She continued transferring his
handwritten notes to the computer, occasionally glancing through various sections
of his art books during her breaks. Musa had left a stack of manuscripts nearly
as tall as ten thick volumes. Sometimes, typing them all out made her vision
swim. When hunger struck, Maya the Georgian housekeeper would prepare her
traditional dishes—but as always, only one type of food in one pot for the
entire household. Artemis found it insufficient and took to bringing large
sandwiches, which she ate an hour before mealtime. Then, over dinner, she and
Maya would chat and sip coffee afterward. Maya, in halting Turkish, spoke of
her daughter and granddaughter back in Georgia. Artemis yearned to talk for
hours, but Maya, fearing Musa’s reprimand, would scurry off to load the
dishwasher.
Artemis was less curious about Musa’s personal life than she was about the
secret to his success. Whenever his students arrived, Musa sent Artemis to a
small side room to continue her work. He never let her sit in on his art
lectures, though she was assisting him for free. Sometimes she eavesdropped
through the half-open door, but Maya would soon appear to check on her, mindful
of Musa’s orders.
Over time, Artemis developed violent sneezing fits due to the library’s
thick dust. Occasionally, she spotted tiny insects, like booklice, in the
secondhand volumes. She initially recoiled, but eventually grew accustomed to
squashing them by hand. They never seemed to diminish. One day, she suggested
fumigating the library. When Musa asked about the cost, Artemis provided a
quote for three rounds of treatment. She also proposed cleaning and arranging
the books with Maya, grouping them by color and size—a project she thought
might soothe Musa’s mind. Musa frowned and flung a pen at her. “Mind your own
business, girl. Stick to your typing.” Artemis felt her legs go weak as Musa
stormed out, cane tapping angrily on the floor.
She met a friend in a bar, nearly in tears. Her friend consoled her,
explaining that renowned men often have enormous egos. He was old, alone,
possibly narcissistic. Artemis’s job was merely to type; she was no naïve
ingénue who could bring sunshine to a gnarled old tree. Artemis thought of
quitting the internship. Her mother scolded her over the phone: “You can’t give
up at the first sign of trouble if you ever want to succeed.” Everyone seemed
to side with Musa. Did she truly deserve his outburst?
The next day, Musa called her over. Artemis assumed he would apologize.
“Arte,” he said, “an important guest is coming today. Work in the kitchen and
feel free to leave early.” Artemis had vowed not to smile at him again, but the
nickname “Arte” implied a newfound closeness. She resolved to do as instructed;
she wouldn’t let others see her as weak, nor would she wage an unwinnable
battle with an old man. She moved her computer and papers into the kitchen. An
hour later, a man with a booming voice arrived, his hearty laughter filling the
house. Artemis mused that even the booklice might be startled by such noise.
Then a hush fell. As she stepped out to use the restroom, she overheard the
guest’s furious words: “Musa, you were supposed to destroy that painting! I
paid for it.”
LISSA
There was a strike at the workshop. Lissa, fearful, stayed at her machine
until a woman from the East turned it off and said, “Stand up. We’re not
slaves.” Lissa hesitated, worrying about her work permit, salary, and life in
Istanbul. Another woman kicked her chair. “Stand up! Don’t you see the sector’s
in crisis? They need us!” At last, Lissa rose and joined the women, head bowed.
The boss’s red-haired, crooked-toothed son grinned at her. She ignored him,
recalling the night he had tried to grope her and sneeringly claimed, “I don’t
plan on catching AIDS from you.”
The boss’s son forced them all out to the street. They sat down in front of
the workshop. Some men brought bread from a bakery, some women found cheese and
tomatoes. They ate together, vowing not to leave until they got a raise. Lissa
felt petrified. A dark-skinned woman touched her shoulder and said, “Don’t be
afraid. They can’t fire all of us. If they do, we’ll find new jobs—and you’ll
come with us.” Lissa smiled timidly just as her phone rang. It was Akuji, who
video-called her from the garden of a grand house. “I found new work. I’m
cleaning this place two days a week,” he announced enthusiastically, showing
off the garden and mansion. Lissa told him about the strike; Akuji encouraged
her, suggesting that perhaps his new employers might hire him full-time,
letting him bring Lissa along. They exchanged a few words about love, money,
and hope before hanging up. Akuji promised to treat her to Ethiopian food when
he was back.
Eventually, the boss promised a raise. They celebrated their modest victory
with cola and orange soda. Then the boss summoned Lissa: “Remember, we secured
your work permit.” Meekly, she murmured, “May God reward you. It’s just that,
when the others…” The boss silenced her with a gesture. “Learn to be grateful.
What kind of Muslim are you, anyway? From now on, you’ll keep me informed of
everything that goes on here, understand?” Lissa lowered her gaze and
whispered, “I’m grateful,” tears welling in her eyes. The bread lodged in her
throat finally slid down, helped by her soda. She prayed silently for herself
and Akuji. The boss’s red-haired son bellowed, “Back to work! Anyone who does overtime
tonight, I’m counting…”
EFIL
In a small, nondescript room within airport customs, Efil—petite but
assertive—spoke persuasively to the customs agent. She donned protective gloves
and, with near-reverence, lifted two tsantsas from a small suitcase.
These shrunken heads, originating from Amazon tribes, had been confiscated for
illicit import. Efil, who had connections at every level, had come all this way
before dawn in hopes of a potential treasure. They might be genuine; they might
be fakes. She was willing to gamble. Perhaps Pertev would want them for his
private collection. If not, she could sell them or, better yet, make Pertev want
them, thereby testing her sway over him.
She discreetly handed the agent a sum of money, and he murmured a small
benediction in return. Efil selected two of the smaller tsantsas, one
male, one female, mentally weaving a tragic story of forbidden love and tribal
honor, of a couple murdered when their families could not tear them apart.
Their heads had been turned into a warning for younger generations and displayed
in the village for many years. They were like a savage echo of Romeo and Juliet
from the Amazon. Now, they lay in Efil’s hands. The customs agent offered, “We
also seized some handwritten Torah scrolls,” but Efil waved him off. “We
already have plenty of those, thanks.”
Efil also served as curator for an art gallery owned by a bank under the
same conglomerate. She found it a tedious chore. One evening, in less than half
an hour, she sent the gallery manager a list of artists from her kitchen. The
theme for their new exhibit was “Sustainability and Recycling.” She politely
responded to several emails from art students, promising to review their CVs
and, if necessary, visit their studios. That was how one handled artists:
bestow compliments, keep them in reserve, but never become too familiar. Once
they got a handhold, they wanted the entire arm. An artist who managed to
produce a single noteworthy piece often deemed themselves irreplaceable. Yet
was it truly “art”? People like Efil determined that.
She then headed to a club resembling a Berlin nightclub, hidden behind what
looked like a construction site. Those in the know were aware that this was no
ordinary bar. Using a code on her phone, Efil slipped inside and ordered a
spiced cocktail. The dark-haired bartender eyed her intently, but she had no
interest in men tonight. Every visit brought unfamiliar faces, which thrilled
her. She hated hearing “Welcome, Ms. Efil” as though she were at some showy
restaurant. It reminded her of Ankara, where valets scrambled to open the car
door; she only went back for her parents’ sake, once a year. She forced such
thoughts away, imagining instead she was meandering through Manhattan. Perhaps
that would be her next stop. Perhaps she and Pertev would venture there
together—if only she could convince him that launching a new art movement in
America was a shared dream.
A long-haired, blue-eyed girl approached with a cheerful “Salut!” Efil felt
relief: tonight she would enjoy the company of a French speaker whose language she
barely knew.
PERTEV
In Pertev’s family, the grandfather, father, and older brothers all
distinguished themselves with prestigious educations and distinctive hobbies.
Succession passed from father to son, though each one’s interest remained
uniquely his own. The grandfather championed horsemanship in the early
republic, sinking a chunk of his wealth into establishing horse farms and
introducing races. It pained him financially, but he wanted to leave a legacy.
Today, a race named for him is still run annually—something the employees take
pride in, even if the grandchildren find it tedious.
Following suit, the father expanded the business further, cleverly aligning
with politicians and enlisting a devout right-hand man. The company grew at
breakneck speed—faster than the entire Turkish economy. One had to think of the
future, after all. Collecting vintage automobiles was the father’s passion,
symbolizing the societal shift from horse to car. People saw him as a guiding force
of modernity. His employees, far from being able to share the hobby, contented
themselves with glimpses of his gleaming automobiles as he arrived.
The eldest brother—Pertev’s oldest sibling—was notoriously handsome.
Magazines wanted him for their covers, but their father refused. In time, the
father handed the firm to him and retired to a house on an Italian lakeside.
The eldest brother took up yachting, inviting managers to join him. But when
talk of “the boss likes us” began to spread, he distanced himself from them.
This was a relief to the managers, who grew tired of buying expensive sporting
gear at their boss’s whim.
Sometimes, the eldest brother sought advice from Musa in secret. Under the
brother’s patronage, Musa’s writings, TV programs, collected volumes, and art
schools thrived. Their partnership led to international expansions.
Then came the middle brother, who declared, “We’re all one family here,”
forging emotional bonds among employees but never turning a profit. He took
over when the eldest brother died abruptly of a heart attack on his yacht.
Stricken with grief, the thousands of employees mourned more deeply than the
siblings did.
The middle brother flailed in the role, even with a master’s degree in the
field. He was perpetually off-balance until their father appointed five trusted
advisers to keep him in check. Meanwhile, Pertev observed from a distance,
perhaps the shrewdest of them all for carefully avoiding management and
crafting his own unblemished persona. He felt on the verge of bursting, haunted
by a childhood trauma that he had only ever shared with his psychologist in
London. His coping method was emerging, courtesy of Efil, whose mind seemed to
mirror his. The works Efil brought him became stepping stones across a dark sea
to his lonely island, guiding him to explore his own sexuality and connect with
the deeper self he concealed.
Acting on Efil’s suggestions, Pertev quietly arranged for a flight from
Cyprus to his grandfather’s mansion, where in a hidden chamber he orchestrated
a bizarre performance with ten people—some bodybuilders, some sex
workers—handpicked for their appearance: blonde women, dark-haired men. Under
his command, the women began licking the men’s eyes, then their faces. Pertev’s
stomach smoldered; Efil’s adrenaline spiked, for she had placed a tiny camera
in the room. She refused to miss this performance. The women then lay on the
floor, letting the men suck their toes. Eventually Pertev halted them.
Expecting an orgy, the group was stunned. He ordered them to masturbate. The
women complied easily, but the men’s steroid use thwarted them. Furious, Pertev
dismissed the men, leaving only the women. One, who appeared to be truly
climaxing rather than feigning, caught his eye. He singled her out, then told
Efil to fetch a rope from the closet and hang her from the ceiling.
Efil balked at such involvement. She might be part of this “new wave,” but
she also felt herself apart from it. Just then, a figure clad in black with a
mask entered. Efil rushed out, trembling. The masked figure ran a tissue
between the woman’s legs as she quivered in orgasm, then extended it to Efil.
Hands shaking, Efil managed to find a plastic bag to store it in. A scream
echoed—“Stop!” Efil glanced through the window to see Pertev’s car speeding
away. So who was left in that room?
She returned to find the woman suspended from the ceiling. “Forgive me,”
the woman whispered. “I didn’t know the safe word.” Efil cut the rope, gave her
some water, and heard her gasp, “Thank goodness.” Efil wiped blood from the
woman’s hands, though the blood was not the woman’s.
The real concern was that the new heir’s dark hobby might soon become the
company’s new pastime.
All rights belong to the author Evrim Ozsoy. No quotation allowed.
Seven episode series project. God of Art
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