ARTEMIS
In the 1930s, when Istanbul was not yet choked by concrete, Pertev’s
grandfather had either foreseen what was to come or realized he could shape
that future himself. He established a construction-supply company in Istanbul,
capitalizing on the Republic’s early years and the backing of government
subsidies. Importing materials from abroad was prohibitively expensive, so he
devised a solution to produce them himself. In Anatolia, he opened a marble
quarry. They hollowed out the land, burrowed into mountains, dusted over the
surrounding forests until the trees withered, were felled, and the villagers
could scarcely breathe. Some abandoned the places they were born to. The rains
ceased. For the sake of quarrying marble, the grandfather had drained the soil.
Yet he was, in his own way, a man of devotion: he employed those same villagers
who had been uprooted, turning that parched land into a hub of opportunity. The
most promising children of the village were brought to Istanbul for an education
and eventual positions in the company—his way of paying his debt to the place
where his father had been born. After all, if he could not trust his own
villagers, whom could he trust?
Sometimes, the most capable girls of the village were taken into service at
his mansion. Such was the case with Fatma, whose parents worked tirelessly to
send her there. The grandfather would pay the families of those he employed,
but the intermediary who handled these arrangements was uneasy about Fatma’s
going to the city—because she was very beautiful. In the end, he was persuaded
with a share of money, taken from the father’s “shroud fund.” Thus, Fatma found
herself at the mansion in Istanbul. Beyond that, the intermediary had no more
stake in her fate. The laundress kept Fatma in the rear garden for months on
end, fearing that if anyone saw her, they would fall in love at first sight.
Then, one spring morning, Fatma entered the master and mistress’s bedroom,
stripped the sheets, replaced them with freshly ironed linens. As she left,
laden with soiled linens, the grandfather happened to enter. He froze,
captivated by the look in Fatma’s eyes. He felt a thrill in his fingertips, a
warmth coursing through him he had never known before. “Who are you?” he asked.
Startled, she whispered, “I’m the laundress.” “Your name?” he said. “Fatma,”
she replied. The grandfather repeated softly: “Fatma…”
After breakfast, he was due to go riding with his companion, Seyis Efe. He
donned his leather boots and brandished his riding crop before the onlooking
household staff, his every gesture designed to impress Fatma, to show her the
strength of his presence—his masculinity. He wanted her to watch him ride home,
to see him stroll the garden, take his coffee, sleep… And Fatma watched. The
grandfather changed. He decided to give her an education, and along with a few
of the other laundress girls, enrolled her in school. Sometimes, chatting with
Seyis Efe, they spoke of horses, work, and love. The grandfather considered
Fatma a match for Efe but never spoke of it directly.
One day, he met Fatma in the stable. She could not fathom what was
happening, but the grandfather felt as though he had engulfed the entire world.
He lost himself in her. Fatma remained silent. Days passed, with the
grandfather continuing to indulge this newfound rapture. He made grand
promises, then married Fatma off to Seyis Efe. At the wedding, Efe, who revered
his employer and friend, kissed his hand in gratitude. News spread across the
country that Efe had become the grandfather’s right-hand man—and that the
master himself had bestowed upon him the most beautiful bride in the world,
offering a future bright with possibilities.
But on a wild boar hunt, Efe was accidentally shot. Though many people
crowded around, the bullet found him. Fatma was devastated, left to mourn with
her son, Musa, scarcely five years old. The grandfather visited them often and
promised that Musa would receive a proper education, that he would treat the
boy as no different from his own newborn son. The mistress of the house,
however, did everything in her power to send Fatma back to her village or
anywhere else, but the grandfather could not bear to let her out of his sight.
Fatma cooked for him; she had a deft hand in the kitchen. Housework, along with
her grief, turned her hair gray before its time.
At the age of six, Musa was sent away to boarding school. Fatma returned to
the mansion in tears. She was alone, and no one consoled her, as though
everyone had cast off a heavy burden. Over the summers, her son would come
home, but as he grew older, he was shuttled to summer schools and camps abroad,
until he eventually went to France. Fatma’s heart couldn’t endure the
separation, and she was buried on a rainy day, parted forever from her beloved
son. The grandfather did not attend the funeral, claiming his own heart was too
frail. If anything happened to him, the company would collapse.
Musa never wanted for money while studying. He sometimes called the
grandfather from France, who paid his expenses. In Musa’s eyes, the
grandfather—though not as handsome or heroic as his father Efe—stood as a
second father figure. His mother, for her part, was that long-suffering village
woman who never uttered a word like, “I wish I’d never been born,” because she
was sensible enough to believe in her own success. Returning to his homeland,
doors opened for Musa. He remained linked to the family his mother had served.
The grandfather’s son was jealous of him, but the grandchildren, aside from
Pertev, welcomed him. Talking art with Musa infuriated Pertev, who was annoyed
by this older man’s slipshod French and half-remembered anecdotes. Pertev
ascribed his dislike to the trauma Musa had inflicted upon him.
When Musa died, the first handful of earth on his coffin was cast by the
middle brother, then by his father, then by those in the art community. Artemis
wept in a corner, anguished by the thought that her final phone call with
him—so charged with anger—had triggered his heart attack. She felt she had
killed him. Rushing to the cemetery’s fountain, she tried to vomit, but her
stomach was empty. As she drank from the water, Efil came to her aid. Artemis
nearly collapsed into Efil’s arms but stopped, remembering that Efil, too,
might have shared blame in Musa’s death.
“He died angry with me,” Artemis sobbed. Efil dried the girl’s face with a
handkerchief. “Why do you think so?” Artemis admitted that Musa had somehow
found out she had let slip details about his memoir. Efil dismissed the notion,
insisting Musa had shared that news himself, that the publisher had withdrawn,
so he’d turned his frustration on her. “He was an old man, lonely,” Efil
murmured. Artemis wanted to shout, “I killed him!” She sobbed hysterically, and
people nearby assumed she was a grieving relative. Efil did not correct them.
Feeling calmer, Artemis realized she could have fainted or gone into hysterics
but, warm in Efil’s reassuring presence, she kept her composure.
After the funeral, Musa’s devoted students gathered at his home. Efil shook
her head and observed, “You see—some say people die close to their birthdays.”
Artemis retreated to the bathroom. Maya stood, her few belongings in hand.
Pertev’s father had arrived, and Efil hesitated to approach him. Pertev himself
was absent. The father’s assistant handled Maya’s outstanding salary and gave
her a sum to cover living expenses until she found new work. Artemis asked,
“What about the book?” Efil approached her gently. “Look, Pertev’s father was
very close to Musa. They grew up together. Let them handle the rest.” Efil made
a grand gesture, persuading the assistant to provide Artemis with a substantial
amount of money. Artemis nearly hugged her out of gratitude, then burst into
tears again. Efil bade farewell to Maya, inhaled for the last time the damp
odor of that library, and left in the taxi she had called. Artemis set the
money on her bedside table—enough to cover six months’ rent and living costs.
Musa had paid her nothing, yet here were strangers showing kindness. Now what
should she do? She might end up serving coffee in a neighborhood café or
working in a household-linen shop.
LISSA
Lissa peered through the small basement window of her apartment, catching
only the legs of passersby on the street. After a while, a car parked directly
in front, its exhaust fumes drifting through the open window. Lissa shut it and
began to sob. Her roommate sauntered over, rolling her eyes. “Stop your crying.
One man leaves, another shows up.” Lissa mumbled, “Akuji isn’t that kind of
man.” The roommate chuckled. “I’ve seen all sorts of men, and half of them weren’t
men at all. Don’t get so attached—he must have his own ulterior motives.” Lissa
said nothing, simply raised her hands and prayed in silence.
Her roommate laughed. “Why don’t you go to church?” she asked
sarcastically. Lissa snapped back, “I can pray however I choose. I’m free.” In
her earliest years in Istanbul, Lissa had attended free English courses at
local churches, so visiting churches and praying there had become a habit. To
her, God was one, and all that mattered was a pure heart, whether one was Muslim
or Christian.
Her text messages to Akuji went unanswered. Perhaps the police had caught
him, deported him already, or else his phone’s battery had died. And in fact,
Akuji was trudging along the outskirts of the city, limping in pain. He had
nowhere else to go, but at least he guessed the police would not raid the old
mansion where he worked. With a fake work permit once shown to security, the
vast grounds might hide him from prying eyes. He planned to remain there at
least a week, then charge his phone and let Lissa know he was safe. Night was
falling.
There were tasks to be done around the mansion—soil to be dug up near the
outbuildings. Akuji agreed to work through the night. The moment he stepped
into the garden, shovel in hand, he stumbled upon a small human head. Shocked
and not sure what to do, he nudged it with his foot, then found a second. A
short distance away was a box, containing more heads—tsantsas. A beam of
light shone into his eyes, startling him. A young man approached. “What’re you
doing? What are those heads? Or is it you who—?” Akuji recognized him: the
policeman who had chased him the other night. Akuji fled. The policeman, who
couldn’t risk calling out, pursued him in hushed desperation, whispering,
“Stop! Don’t run!” Akuji reached the walls; he could neither jump them nor
outrun the policeman with his twisted ankle. “Stop running,” the policeman
pleaded, still in a near-whisper. Akuji tripped, and the officer fell atop him,
covering his mouth. “Akuji—don’t make a sound!” The recognition that this
policeman knew his name and had tracked him here filled Akuji with the urge to
kill him, but thoughts of Lissa stilled his hand. He might be deported, but he
refused to become a murderer. The younger policeman subdued him, explaining
that if Akuji would cooperate, he wouldn’t be deported. Relieved, Akuji let out
a shuddering breath.
They sat against the wall, the box of Amazon heads beside them. “Did you
bring these here? Tell me the truth,” the policeman demanded. Akuji swore he
knew nothing, that he had simply discovered them while digging. “Why are you
digging in the garden?” the officer asked. “Because they tell me to. I dig
here, then move over there, that’s my job. Please, don’t take me to jail. I’ll
do whatever you want.” The policeman spoke to him quietly, revealing that he,
too, was there undercover, investigating antiquities smuggling. He needed Akuji
to be his eyes and ears inside the estate—reporting on the artwork, who came
and went. Akuji broke down, sobbing that he couldn’t possibly do it. “Get a
grip,” the policeman hissed. “You want to see Lissa again? Then do as I say.”
Terrified, Akuji believed the Turkish police knew everything. The policeman
pressed him for details of who visited the estate, which artworks were hidden
inside. Akuji explained that he never went into the mansion, that he and the
other workers remained behind the outbuilding whenever guests arrived, only
coming out after they left.
Satisfied, the officer instructed him to photograph anything suspicious if
he managed to enter the mansion—particularly the artworks or the guests. Akuji
wept anew, certain he couldn’t do it. “Man up, Akuji,” the policeman muttered,
“and don’t run. We’re watching your every move.” He disappeared into the
shadows, leaving Akuji to bury the Amazon heads (box and all) beneath a
specific tree, presumably as future evidence. Next, Akuji needed to let Lissa
know he was safe.
In the middle of the night, Lissa was awakened by a message on her phone.
Akuji said he was fine, at the mansion, and would come for her once things
calmed down. He sent his location, along with “I love you, Lissa,” punctuated
by a heart. Relieved, Lissa realized Akuji was unlike other men—he was
resourceful, had survived off scraps, never clashed with the police, never once
raised his voice at her. That night, Lissa slept soundly.
Akuji’s night stretched on. He dug up a set of bones from the soil. The
watchman told him they were plastic, that the bones had been “planted” there
temporarily for some art project. Akuji, as sly as the policeman, slipped a
small bone shard into his pocket. He was gathering evidence now, apparently.
When break time came, he filmed two men through a window in the mansion,
capturing them in an embrace. Silently, he recorded the silhouette, hoping to
send it to the policeman later, once he had a phone. The garden soon filled
with cars. Akuji wrote down their license plate numbers, though he couldn’t see
who stepped out. A gardener sent him and a few other workers back to the
outbuilding. He put his phone on to charge, but couldn’t sleep. Eventually,
security came and hauled him outside. Akuji nearly panicked, certain the police
had come to get him, or that he was about to be harmed. Instead, they led him
into the mansion, up sweeping staircases. The guard warned him that if he
breathed a word of what he saw to anyone, his fake papers would be handed over
to the police. Shaken, he obeyed.
They brought him to a room where Musa sat in an armchair, clutching a cane,
looking oddly unresponsive. Security said Musa had taken some sort of drug and
needed to be brought home before he caused trouble for their “patrons.” Akuji
froze, half believing they might bury the old man in the garden. But the guard
calmly explained they would drive him home and give Akuji a thousand dollars
for his trouble. Akuji nodded, requesting to remain in the outbuilding
afterward, as he had nowhere else to stay. They loaded Musa into a car and
brought him to his apartment in the city.
That morning, Lissa arrived at work in a bright mood, only for the boss to
pull her aside. “Are you mixed up with illegal migrants?” he demanded. She
stayed silent. “You need to get married,” he continued. “I’ve got a big strong
man from my village coming in—he’s handsome. If you don’t say yes, we might have
an issue with your work permit.” Lissa stared in disbelief. “Are the workers
going to protest again?” he asked, but Lissa remained mute. “If you don’t warn
me next time they threaten a strike, I’ll toss you onto the streets.” Lissa
answered in a tremulous voice: “I’ve heard nothing, sir. I’m just working.” The
boss wanted to keep Lissa because she was strong enough to do the work of three
women and cost only half as much. The new man would also handle the load of
five, so the boss could fire four employees. Meanwhile, if Lissa became a
citizen through marriage, the immigration police would quit pestering the
workshop. Staying silent, Lissa returned to her duties. The other women looked
on as though she were a snitch. Marrying a stranger was precisely what she had
fled her homeland to avoid. All she could do was pray she would soon be
reunited with Akuji.
EFIL
Efil was in Pertev’s office, juggling piles of paperwork for a surprise new
exhibit. There was a mountain of tasks, but Pertev insisted it would all come
together in a week. Efil objected—the museum’s schedule was fixed—but Pertev
argued they could open the top floor for a month-long special collection.
Despite her annoyance, Efil felt a flicker of excitement. She already had a
long list of artists she could contact. Within five days, they could have
pieces shipped in. Pertev congratulated her, remarking how much he admired her
“Pompeii” performance, but that he now felt guilt-ridden and needed a tamer
follow-up performance. So Efil would curate a major exhibit at the museum, plan
a more “restrained” performance for the mansion’s elite guests, and—on top of
it all—figure out whether to freeze her eggs. Pertev smiled, telling her she
could take an assistant if she liked. Efil refused, wanting to manage it
herself. After all, was she not his “right hand”?
He handed her a flash drive. Glancing through its videos, she realized the
kind of edgy work he expected. But he quickly clarified that most of his
collection was already finalized; she need only track down a few new artists.
“I thought we were choosing the collection together?” she asked. In truth,
Pertev had begun amassing pieces on his own, hauling them in by private jet,
disregarding normal channels. He planned to truck them all to the museum
overnight, claiming Efil as curator in name only. The only real task left for
Efil was to stage a modest performance at the mansion that wouldn’t shock his
upper-crust guests too much.
Efil left his office, feeling frozen. He had acquired everything behind her
back. If he could do it all himself, why did he need her? Was he merely using
her name? Or did he plan to discard her altogether? What was his goal? And who
had prepared those explanatory placards if not her? Efil realized he was
working around her. But how could she protest? Return and confront him or try
to focus on her next performance? She wished she had someone wiser to advise
her.
PERTEV
The upcoming evening belonged to a private event supposedly held in honor
of the late art historian and journalist, Musa. Pertev wore a navy bespoke suit
tailored in Italy and a pair of gray-framed glasses. Even his father and
brother were slated to attend, along with some of the country’s wealthiest
figures, notable names in journalism and the art world. They would witness
Pertev’s one-of-a-kind art showcase and spend days raving about his refined
taste. Such events did more for the family’s reputation than anything his
brother attempted. To be talked about was a boon indeed.
By eight o’clock, the grandfather’s mansion overflowed with guests. His
father and brother arrived proudly, congratulating Pertev. The drinks and hors
d’oeuvres were flawless, and reporters scrambled to photograph everyone.
Artists mingled, hoping to corner the wealthy, but the conversations were
short—these high-society figures spoke a language of their own.
The brother was pleased that his chamber orchestra had been invited to
perform. He sipped champagne, nodding to the music. Their father surveyed the
mansion, yearning for a tribute that might have pleased his own father. Five
female performance-art students stepped into the center of the hall, the lights
dimmed, and they launched into a dance. It began simply, then merged feline and
canine movements. Their father blushed; the brother checked his watch, hoping
it might end soon. The dancers approached individual guests, extending their
hands and heads as if seeking affection. At first, people were uneasy, but then
they began to pet them as if they were domesticated animals. Suddenly, real
dogs were brought in from a side entrance. Efil took the microphone and spoke
about the need to adopt abandoned animals from shelters. The audience melted at
the sentiment. The wealthy guests, wanting to impress the hosts, hastily
“chose” dogs as though selecting melons. The art community applauded, praising
the fusion of art and social responsibility. Reporters snapped photos of
glamorous guests cradling their new pets. Pertev’s father patted him on the
back, his brother shook his hand.
But at that moment, the performers started howling. This was not part of
the plan. Efil shot them a perplexed look. The girls began shouting, “Animals
can’t be locked away in houses!” claiming they were sold and then abandoned in
the streets, demanding people let animals live free rather than confine them.
They thrust pamphlets into people’s hands. Pertev met Efil’s gaze. This
definitely had not been part of their agreed-upon performance.
All rights belong to the author Evrim Ozsoy. No quotation allowed.
Seven episode series project. God of Art
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