ARTEMIS
Artemis had been conversing with Musa for nearly an hour. He was recounting
his years spent at the nation’s most prestigious boarding schools from primary
level through his final year of high school. His mother had served as a maid,
his father a gardener—yet he was orphaned young. Taken in by programs that
championed gifted students, Musa underwent a series of aptitude tests that left
the examiners astonished by his intellect. Wishing only for her son to have the
finest possible education, his mother had parted from him when he was a mere
child, delivering him—suitcase in hand—to a French-language school. In time,
Musa grew into a true Francophone, and every door of opportunity opened for him
thereafter.
Artemis listened, entranced, scarcely daring to ask questions out of
shyness. Musa went on to explain that he later pursued Art History at a
university in Paris, completing a doctorate as well. Rather than remaining
abroad, however, he returned home, resolved to instill a love of art in the
nation’s youth. He began his career writing small columns for a local
newspaper. Soon came a professorship at a university and, with the rise of
media, a swift ascent to popularity. He spoke fondly of his mother, whose
sacrifices had led to all his success. If only she had survived to share a
corner of this grand house with him. Tragically, her years of domestic labor
had triggered heart disease at a young age, and ineffective treatments hastened
her passing.
“I owe my parents so much as well,” Artemis said quietly. Musa, however,
merely asked, “How many more pages do you have left to type?” She stammered, “I—
quite a lot, I believe.” Musa then summoned Maya for his single daily meal.
Artemis rose, knowing exactly where she was expected to go. A few hours later,
Musa’s art history students arrived. One of them slipped into the kitchen to
surreptitiously place a cake in the refrigerator—it was Musa’s birthday. At
last, it made sense why he had deigned to be so amiable toward her that day.
While Maya bustled back and forth, bearing drinks for the students, the
doorbell rang. Artemis, seizing the initiative, went to answer it. First, she
noticed a pair of red patent-leather boots. Then she saw a middle-aged woman in
a black dress, who asked, “Hello, has the party started?” Artemis, in a hushed
voice, replied, “He’s still teaching.” The woman took her hand and said, “I’m
Efil. And you?” Artemis, startled by the warmth of her touch, managed, “I’m
Artemis.” Efil smiled. “Ah! So you’re the ‘Arte’ Musa’s mentioned?” Artemis was
taken aback. Musa rarely even looked at her. How and to whom had he been
referring to her as “Arte”?
Efil asked Artemis which perfume she wore, leaving Artemis momentarily
flustered. Together they opened the door to the living room. Artemis hesitated
on the threshold, but Efil clasped her hand and drew her in, calling out,
“Joyeux anniversaire, Monsieur!” The students applauded. The moment Efil
entered, everyone stood to greet her with respect. Maya emerged with the cake.
Thanks to Efil, Artemis found herself in the midst of Musa’s students for the
first time. She was mesmerized by this woman’s charm and self-assurance—her red
boots gleaming under the lights.
Standing now, Musa looked around for his cane. Artemis quickly retrieved
it. “Do you really need that just now?” Efil teased him. Laughing, he braced
himself on Artemis’s arm. “Arte, do you see? We’ve turned yet another year!”
A French tune began playing, one of the students started taking photos, and
Efil popped the champagne. Since moving into Musa’s home, Artemis had never
felt so at ease, her self-confidence buoyed by the cheerful atmosphere. She
felt, for once, like the protagonist in her own story. Slipping away to the
washroom, she took a moment to look up Efil online and discovered that she was
a famous curator. Inside the living room, everyone clamored for Efil’s
attention. A few minutes later, Efil, wanting to reapply her crimson lipstick,
followed Artemis into the washroom. Artemis was about to step out when Efil
halted her. “Wait—tell me if it’s smudged.” She pressed her lips together and
leaned in. “Does it look all right?”
Artemis focused on her face. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you,” replied
Efil, and then posed a few questions: what was Artemis doing here? Artemis
explained that she was transferring Musa’s handwritten notes into digital form.
“Oh yes,” Efil replied, “there’s also the volume on the family collection,
isn’t there?” Artemis noticed the lipstick had, in fact, smeared slightly, but
Efil was waiting for an answer. “I suspect I’ll have to pick up the pace,”
Artemis said. Efil asked, “How much longer does your internship last?” “A
month, I think. If I work every day, I’ll finish eventually. There are so many
notes, plus I hear they might publish his memoirs as a book—someone’s already
made him an offer.”
Efil froze, briefly. “His memoirs? I thought he was focusing on the
family’s art collection—particularly Pertev’s.” Oblivious that she was letting
slip one of Musa’s secrets, Artemis replied, “I can do the collection part in
ten days or so, but the personal notes will take longer.” Efil had gleaned the
information she needed. Suddenly, she got a phone call, claiming there was
trouble at a museum gallery, and left in a hurry.
Artemis returned to the kitchen and sat at her computer. She decided to
make duplicates of all Musa’s notes on her own flash drive. If anything were to
be erased, retyping everything would be far too tedious. She also copied his
folders named “Art Lectures, Interviews, and Early Critiques.” If she had never
been invited to his lectures, she could at least study them on her own time.
Why not? It was only fair.
She congratulated Musa on his birthday again, kissing him on both cheeks.
The veteran art historian smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Arte.”
That night, as Artemis prepared for bed, her phone rang. It was Musa.
Alarmed, she picked up, fearing something had happened. His voice boomed in
anger. “Do you have nothing better to do than tell people what I’m writing?
Damn it! You’ve ruined everything.” Artemis’s hands shook. She couldn’t speak.
“How dare you spread the news about my memoirs!” he roared. She stammered, “I
was only talking about the art collection. The memoirs—” “Enough!” he bellowed.
“You venomous snake! I never want to see you again.” He hung up before she
could utter another word. She was almost relieved the reprimand ended there,
yet it left her trembling. Sleep eluded her. She took a painkiller and wept.
What harm was there if people learned he was working on a memoir? It would
be published eventually, wouldn’t it? What fault was Artemis’s in this? If it
was meant to be a secret, he needn’t have let her into his home at all. What
sort of cruel man phoned a young woman in the middle of the night just to
scream at her? No wonder he was alone. He could only spread his misery to others.
If the memoir was to remain hidden, surely he could have told her from the
start, “You must keep it secret.”
Artemis rushed to the bathroom. She vomited up the birthday cake. A grim
sense of calm followed. Musa’s recommendation letter was assuredly gone now.
LISSA
Lissa wore white jeans and a red jacket. Catching a glimpse of her
reflection in a shop window, she fretted over whether it made her hips look too
large. Still, she decided the color suited her. She wished Akuji would remark
on how lovely she looked in red. As she adjusted her hair, Akuji appeared, and
they embraced as though meeting after a long absence, drinking in each other’s
familiar scent.
They made their way to an Ethiopian restaurant near Taksim, excited by the
promise of live dance performances. Akuji teased her, “Will you join the girls
on the dance floor?” Lissa pursed her lips in a silent “no.” Akuji grasped her
hand, helping her climb the stairs more easily.
They ate, chatting into the night. At one point, Lissa dribbled oil onto
her white jeans. In the restroom, she regarded her bloated belly in the mirror.
Well, her body was curvy—nothing to be done but accept herself. She resolved to
skip dessert, concluding the meal with Ethiopian coffee. Akuji gently insisted,
“Don’t worry about the cost. Order any dessert you like.” Lissa had lost
interest, but she was touched by his kindness. He was never stingy, always
treating her to small gestures of affection when he could afford it, taking her
out so she wouldn’t feel isolated. Other men she knew spoke of marriage at
once, forcing their wives to labor both outside and inside the home. Akuji was
different: he always said “we,” never “I.” He explained his new job clearing
the garden of an old mansion just outside Istanbul. Lissa asked why they had
chosen him. Weren’t there any number of professional gardeners for wealthy
households? A friend had recommended Akuji, knowing he had done similar work
back in his home country and was discreet, dependable. The mansion’s landscape,
trees, and plants were constantly being rearranged, he said. It was… unusual.
Lissa frowned. “Unusual in what sense?” Akuji mentioned how, at night, numerous
men and women arrived in black minibuses, stayed for about an hour, and then departed.
Lissa rolled her eyes at the ceiling—she hated such shady goings-on. Akuji
squeezed her hand. “It’s none of our concern. My job is strictly outside. I’m
forbidden to enter. I work certain hours, eat in the servants’ quarters, then
go to sleep.”
Lissa pleaded with him to find a different job, but he shook his head.
“Baby, do you remember what my hands looked like after collecting scrap paper
in the streets? At least pruning trees and working with soil feels more
dignified. Maybe the owners will help me secure a work permit so we can both
have a fresh start there.” Lissa’s heart soared at the mention of “baby” and “a
new life.” She grinned. Just then, the barefoot dancers began an Ethiopian
routine. Akuji urged her to join, and though shy, she finally rose and danced,
working up a sweat. He kissed her, and she excused herself to the restroom, not
wanting him to catch any whiff of perspiration.
Suddenly, an abrupt male voice echoed through the corridor: “Police!
Everyone ready your identification!” Lissa froze. Akuji was undocumented. He
couldn’t afford to be caught. She dashed from the restroom. Their table was
empty—Akuji was gone. Panicked, she searched for him, imagining he might have
been taken away. A dark-haired, dark-eyed officer stepped before her. “Show me
your ID.” Lissa did so, then presented her work permit. He barely glanced at
them. “You’re free to go,” he said flatly. Lissa returned to the table to find
Akuji had left enough money to cover the bill. She paid, then hurried outside,
cursing the abrupt end to her evening. Wandering the side streets, she found no
sign of him. Fearful of calling—lest the police intercept him—she eventually
gave up and headed home.
Meanwhile, Akuji had fled through Tarlabaşı’s narrow alleys, with the
police in pursuit. At last, he slipped undetected into a municipal facility
where the night watchman was dozing. For two hours, Akuji crouched there,
scarcely daring to breathe, until he was sure the patrol cars had dispersed. He
couldn’t risk phoning Lissa, but at dawn he would send a message letting her
know he was safe. Standing, he realized he had twisted his ankle during the
chase. He turned his jacket inside out, donned a cap, picked up a few cardboard
boxes from the garbage to look less conspicuous, and limped out of Taksim.
EFIL
Efil was awaiting her turn at the obstetrics department of a hospital. A
clerk called out, “Elif Hanım, you may come in,” which caused Efil’s temper to
rise. “My name is Efil,” she corrected, refusing to let it slide. Embarrassed,
the young staff member apologized, remarking on how pretty the name was. “Does
it mean something special? Why did you choose it?”
Efil gave a stiff smile. “My father always longed for a son and planned to
name him after one of the gates of Paradise. But I arrived instead.” The clerk,
curious, prompted her to continue. “And so,” Efil concluded, “they gave me this
name. In Turkish, efil also suggests a breeze blowing lightly.” The
clerk’s face lit up. “Ah, like we say efil efil esti—that’s lovely!” She
then ushered Efil into the obstetrician’s office, planning to recount the
encounter in a more dramatic way to her friends later. People tended to
embellish real events in the retelling.
Inside, Efil was on the verge of shouting at the gynecologist who insisted,
“Please, you should freeze your eggs.” Efil declared she did not intend to
marry or have children. The doctor pressed further, telling her she was nearing
the last opportunity—why not freeze her eggs and decide in the next five years
whether she wanted a child? Life could take unexpected turns, and she could not
know what the future might bring. The doctor gave her a week to think it over,
certain Efil would return, having recognized the loneliness and desperation
written on her face. Some doctors could identify a patient’s real need the
moment they walked through the door. It was clear Efil craved love.
Leaving the department, Efil passed a woman smoking outside in a short
nightgown and coat, evidently a new mother. She seemed wholly absorbed in her
newborn, scarcely noticing anything else. When her husband arrived, she stubbed
out the cigarette, scowled, and marched back inside. Efil wondered if she
herself would behave so indifferently were she ever a mother. She imagined the
possibilities: a little girl who might become her exact copy, a boy who might
prove simpler for a single mother. Would she languish in loneliness? Or perhaps
find a compatible partner? Would her Manhattan dreams vanish, or might life in
the U.S. be easier for a parent? Her head buzzed with questions about health
care, the weight of responsibility. A man stepped forward just then, thrusting
a box of chocolates at her. “I had a son!” he beamed. Efil forced a smile of
congratulations, then slipped away.
She needed to show Pertev the tsantsas—the Amazonian shrunken heads
she had procured. She was still uncertain how he might react. She left him a
voice message recounting a fanciful Romeo-and-Juliet tale attached to the
heads, explaining she had spent a month orchestrating this surprise. She wanted
him to appreciate them, earn a word of praise.
Pertev summoned her to the mansion (the old family estate). Efil, thrilled,
hopped into her car. She drove cautiously in the middle lane, anxious about the
reckless drivers weaving between cars. As she traveled, she rehearsed her pitch
out loud, determined to captivate Pertev’s imagination with other performance
concepts first so the tsantsas would seem like a natural extension,
rather than a random find. She couldn’t appear like someone who simply flung
every oddity at him.
Yet her thoughts felt unfocused while driving. She spotted a modest tea
house in a small village and pulled over. Inside, she ordered tea, but the men
present regarded her with puzzlement. Outside, a dog climbed atop another dog,
and they began to mate. The men muttered their disapproval, with one leaping up
to chase them off. The dogs merely moved farther away and resumed. How strange,
she mused: no one separates humans in the midst of their passion. One man
quipped, “They’ll turn to stone!” and the others snickered. Efil thought of
taxidermy, of the ephemeral nature of performance art. Depicting people in the
act of love felt overdone, even if same-sex couplings came across as staged.
Efil longed for something with raw realism—blood, tears, bodily fluids, pain.
To freeze a moment in time, much like freezing an egg. A sudden chill ran
through her belly as a breeze blew in. She darted back to her car and continued
on to Pertev’s grandfather’s mansion.
Just as she was about to enter, a friend from New York who worked in the
arts called, offering her a vacant position at a museum there. For a moment,
Efil lost track of everything else. She promised they would discuss the details
later. This was no time for drifting aimlessly—she needed to remain confident.
Clutching the box holding the Amazon heads, she went in to see Pertev.
She first laid out her ideas for a new performance—teasingly, without
giving full detail. Pertev was visibly intrigued. She mentioned a few people
she wanted to witness it, though Efil admitted such a spectacle could lead to
gossip. Pertev merely laughed. “Don’t worry about reputations.” “All right,”
she conceded. “We can call the performance ‘Pompeii.’”
She hardly finished before Pertev’s eyes lit up at the word “Pompeii.”
Sensing his excitement, she opened her box, donned gloves, and showed him the
shrunken heads. Yet he seemed distracted, barely glancing at them. “Aren’t
these fake?” he asked with a slight sneer. Efil, startled, insisted they were
genuine, obtained discreetly through her reliable customs contact. Pertev’s
phone buzzed. Holding it away, he said, “Tomorrow at ten,” dismissing Efil with
a nod. She recognized the signal to leave and headed to her car, passing
instructions to the estate security and staff. Twilight was falling. As she
started the engine, she saw a few Black men entering the mansion grounds. They
greeted security familiarly. Could Pertev be planning a secret performance
behind her back? Her phone rang again—Pertev. She pulled over, hearing his
voice: “I’m on the balcony. Look this way. Your heads are fake.” With that, he
tossed them from above, box and all, into the garden. Efil sat there, stunned.
Part of her wanted to dash back and retrieve them, to defend their
authenticity. But his voice cut in coldly: “Go work on Pompeii.” She drove off
on the verge of tears, feeling as though she had been flattened by a
steamroller.
PERTEV
Pertev, his father, and the middle brother were seated in the brother’s
office at the company, enjoying coffee while gazing out over the Bosphorus.
Pertev remarked to his father that he saw no rationale in the middle brother’s
plan to go to Vienna to find a conductor for his new philharmonic. Why not add
an arts consultant to the “brain trust” so that the brother himself could sit
in the office all day while an expert searched every country for a maestro?
Their father sighed. “You mean someone like your fiery Efil?”
Pertev smiled. “She’s my right hand, yes, but our relationship is strictly
professional. I’ve no intention of whiling away retirement at some lakeside
villa with her.” His father rose. “If you heard what people say about you,
you’d realize how deep the water is you’re swimming in. These rumors reached me
even at my lake house. I refuse to be shamed!”
“Don’t fret, Father,” Pertev replied calmly. “Times have changed.
Everyone’s sense of shame is dead. Boundaries no longer exist. I may just start
a new artistic movement right here, liberating our country’s art scene.” His
father bristled. “That’s precisely what they fear: that with your wealth and
power, you’ll surround yourself with frauds who shape the nation’s art—if
indeed it even remains ‘art.’ They say these so-called performances profane
your grandfather’s mansion. You’re making his spirit groan in the afterlife.”
Unruffled, Pertev said, “Who gave you this lecture—some esteemed art
historian? Perhaps Musa?” His father’s eyes widened; he had met with Musa privately.
How did Pertev know? Pertev continued, “My eldest brother admired Musa as well,
but I never understood why the man was so embedded in our family’s affairs.”
His father reddened. “It was necessary. Your grandfather made a habit of
helping bright orphans, and Musa was among them. He was precious to your
grandfather, so we never broke ties.” Pertev remained collected. “I hear he’s
writing a book on our family’s art collection, particularly mine. He’s rather
old-fashioned, but it started with a painting you commissioned overseas,
correct? That spurred my own fascination. I’ve tried to build on it—enhancing
your taste in art, Father. But if you truly cannot keep up with modern times, I
suggest leaving it to me.”
His father fumed. “I’ll close down the museum.” Pertev smirked. “Go on—see
what my middle brother says.” Father snapped, “Then run the company yourself,
since you have so many opinions!” Pertev shrugged. “I’m waiting my turn. But
let me at least stage a grand new exhibition before you shut the museum’s
doors. Speaking with you has opened my mind. Though I still bear scars from
what you did in the past, you made me who I am today.”
The father froze. “They say all trauma is self-created,” he muttered,
heading for the door. “Bring your brother back from Vienna at once.” Pertev
sighed. “By the way, your beloved Musa is writing the family’s story—and
apparently my part in it too.” Neither man spoke another word.
Even as Pertev ruminated on the conversation, he was already mapping out
the pieces for his next exhibition—one that would cause a sensation. Whether
ordinary people understood or cared was irrelevant; the intended audience of
true art patrons would. His right-hand staff could manage the finer details;
for him, it was all about pleasure. He went to Vienna to collect his brother,
and as a bonus, indulged in proper schnitzel. They talked only of trivial
matters, though Pertev also visited a few museums, gauging how far he dared
push the boundaries for his own exhibition. Even Vienna might balk at what he
had in mind.
His brother returned with him to Istanbul by private jet, eager to hold an
orchestral rehearsal. Pertev was there, letting the swirling melodies carry him
to another world. Their father thanked Pertev for “tidying up after your
brother,” and for alerting him about Musa’s book. Pertev won his father’s trust
with a single sentence: “I’ll handle the book problem.”
From childhood, wealthy heirs like Pertev learned to cultivate poise and
strategy. Life was akin to chess: you not only prepared your own next move, but
everyone else’s, tailoring distinct approaches to each. Pertev always dreamed
of granting people experiences beyond their imagination, disdaining anything
predictable or dull. Sometimes he was glad he hadn’t studied art formally, for
it made him all the more relentless. He sensed his power growing, his grasp on
the world tightening each day.
The night of the “Pompeii” performance arrived. Efil had yet to see Pertev
in person since he hurled the shrunken heads from the balcony. She was still
rattled. If the performance went poorly, he might discard her as though
severing a useless “right hand.” She swallowed a sedative. Pertev had even
instructed that a mild substance be slipped into the guests’ drinks. If
necessary, a post-performance concoction would ensure they remembered little.
A small group of guests, including Pertev, gathered in a hidden chamber.
Efil had no wish to trap them, so she explained they were free to leave at a
certain point. Pertev objected: everyone there had sworn to remain till the end
and speak of it to no one. Efil glanced at her minuscule camera, which streamed
the proceedings to a foreign server in real time, courtesy of her New York
friend. She refused to lose a one-time performance to oblivion. Tonight, she would
make history.
Among the attendees was Musa, who wrote extensively on art history. He felt
honored—if somewhat anxious—to have been invited, especially after Pertev’s
father had assailed him over the phone for the memoir fiasco. Pertev soothed
him, apologizing for his father’s behavior, calling him a narrow-minded
businessman. Musa relaxed, sipping his drink until his apprehensions eased.
Pertev raised a glass to him. “Uncle Musa, I must thank you. Had you not shown
me that painting years ago, I might never have confronted my trauma.” Musa said
nothing but recalled how that painting, commissioned in defiance of Pertev’s
father, had shaped Pertev’s destiny—and now, perhaps, the destiny of the
country’s art scene. Overcome by conflicting remorse and relief, Musa took
another gulp.
Soon, the performance began. Efil announced that what was seen there would
remain there. The audience found themselves in a hexagonal room as two dogs
trotted in. The doors shut, the lights dimmed. The dogs sniffed each other, occasionally
nipping at ears, then succumbed—due to a drug provided earlier—to the instinct
to mate. Pertev’s eyes gleamed. Musa gripped his cane. Efil recalled seeing a
similar scene in that village square only the previous day, though the next
step would be far more intense.
In their mating frenzy, the dogs wandered into a small enclosed area behind
a glass partition, dimly lit. A faint howling emanated from time to time. The
top dog began panting, and in a flash, the ceiling lowered, sealing them
inside. A blast of liquid nitrogen hissed, filling the enclosure. The animals
let out one final, piercing cry—then froze in place, locked in their orgasmic
posture. Turning to Musa, Pertev declared, “Their Pompeii moment—immortalized.”
Efil stood, paralyzed with shock, for even she had not expected quite this
conclusion. Musa clutched his chest, the light fading from his eyes. By the
next morning, he would be found lifeless in his study. All who knew him would
mourn, saying, “He still had so much to write, so much to teach.”
All rights belong to the author Evrim Ozsoy. No quotation allowed.
Seven episode series project. God of Art
Yorumlar