ARTEMIS
The kitchen reeked of herbs. Artemis, determined to try new healthy
recipes, had resolved to eat primarily greens, limiting herself to two meals a
day. Otherwise, her money vanished on food—three main meals, fruit and nuts for
snacks, plus tea and coffee. She couldn’t afford it all. It was better to cook
at home, carrying a sandwich if she went out. Istanbul had become exorbitantly
expensive. Where once two people could share a meal, now that sum barely bought
a single coffee. She wondered how to make money from her art studies.
Switching on her computer, she was thrilled to see an art gallery had
invited her for an interview. No one offered salary or benefits these days, but
if she made a good impression, perhaps they would keep her on—and the main
thing was to learn. She might have learned from Musa’s classes, had he let her
attend. That memory prodded her to check the files she had copied from his
computer. She nibbled on asparagus while opening them. Musa had recorded audio
of all his lectures, which filled countless folders. Artemis also looked at the
manuscript she had typed up, proud of how much she had accomplished in such a
short time. But in another folder, she found photographs and documents. Opening
a Word file, she discovered the memoir Musa had been writing about his life.
Her heart lurched, as though stepping into his tomb. Curiosity compelled her to
read on, and what she found astonished her: Musa’s voice was so vivid, as if he
were sitting on a red velvet armchair in her apartment, quietly recounting how
he came into the world. As she read further, Artemis learned who Musa really
was, the secrets roiling through the art scene, and the machinations of Pertev
in his quest to ignite a new movement.
LISSA
Meanwhile, Lissa immersed herself in her job. The big, muscular worker the
boss had mentioned arrived and instantly replaced three other employees. The
boss made suggestive signals at her, indicating she would soon wed this
towering hulk. Fortunately, the man moved like a machine, paying no attention
to Lissa or anyone else. He completed his tasks at double speed, devouring his
lunch in two minutes flat, then returned to work while everyone else finished
their break. Lissa seethed with tension. She and Akuji needed to find a legal
route, marry, secure jobs—anything but this travesty. She could never marry
this giant, but she also couldn’t afford to lose her job.
The boss’s redheaded son joked, “Don’t get sweet on the new machine, or
you’ll fall for him.” Lissa didn’t crack a smile. He leered at her: “Your lucky
husband, that big brute.” Lissa lowered her gaze.
Akuji, meanwhile, wrestled with conflicting urges: to visit the policeman
and disclose everything he knew, or to pretend ignorance and remain at the
mansion, living illegally. He had, after all, inadvertently recorded himself
hauling a dead man out of the house. Either way, there was no guarantee he
would gain legal status. At best, the policeman might ignore him for a few
days. After lunch, Akuji was summoned back inside to help clear out a room. The
security staff had grown to trust him. He worked with all his might, packing
and lifting furniture to the depot alongside other Black migrants. He overheard
them joking, “If you only knew what goes on here…” but they fell silent when
they realized he was listening. Akuji probed gently, but they had only been at
the mansion for about a month themselves, always arriving at night and leaving
before dawn. They made good money but never stayed long. Gazing around for
smuggled artifacts—especially after discovering the Amazon heads—Akuji saw
cameras in some rooms.
Security then escorted Akuji to another chamber, where he encountered rows
of tubes filled with embryos. “Is the patron a doctor or something?” he
muttered. The guard was tight-lipped. “Sort of. Anyway, you’re to dust them.
Keep this door locked and don’t talk to the others, understood?” Akuji
shivered. The rumors about undocumented workers doing any and all jobs… might
there be truth in it? He began dusting the tubes. At times, he felt the
embryos’ silent pleas for rescue. Before long, the door opened, and a figure in
the darkness asked, “What are you mumbling?” Startled, Akuji replied, “I’m
sorry, I didn’t see you. I was just humming to myself.” The man stepped into
the light. He was blond, blue-eyed, tall, and strikingly handsome—Akuji’s
opposite in every way. “It sounded nice. Sing it again.” Akuji, anxious about
being seen talking, tried to leave. “I speak little Turkish. Sorry,” he
mumbled. The man reassured him, “Relax, you’re safe.” They chatted quietly,
with Akuji telling him about life in his African village. The man was curious.
“Do you dance? Play music?” Akuji answered diplomatically, not shutting any door.
The man consoled him. “These are handmade replicas, don’t worry—they’re not
real.” Akuji inhaled sharply. The guard arrived, whispered something to the
blond man, and Akuji was dispatched on another errand.
EFIL
The fiasco at the event honoring Musa was quickly overshadowed by news of
Pertev’s impending museum exhibit. Efil once again found herself reaping the
publicity, gliding through interviews with her hair blown out, dressed in a
cream-colored suit that drew admiring looks. The media spent an hour filming
her at the museum. Glancing outside, she spotted Pertev’s father at the
entrance. She hastened over, only to be greeted with cool reserve. The older
man complained that the chosen works seemed meaningless, yet people were raving
about them.
Efil, lowering her voice, explained they were pieces Pertev had selected.
The father gave her a hard stare. “Then why is your name listed as curator?”
Efil tried to defend herself, claiming art must be bold. He cut her off with a
raised hand. “I’m closing this museum soon,” he said, then strode away.
Standing before the mirror in the restroom, Efil nearly succumbed to tears.
If the museum closed, Pertev would cast her aside. She needed a way to regain
his favor. All her recent moves had failed. Once, anything she did astounded
him, but now something had changed. The family drama was affecting her, forcing
her to coordinate the bank’s gallery, discover new artists, watch her back for
internal politics. If she started over in America, who knew how long it would
take for her name to stand out? The very thought depressed her. Besides, Pertev
had arranged a dinner for Artemis at his grandfather’s mansion, and Efil
pondered how to turn that seemingly pointless evening into something unforgettable.
First, she had to step outside to gather her thoughts.
She drove over to Artemis’s flat. Artemis seemed on edge, uncertain whether
she should tell Efil about her encounter with the police. Fearing she might let
something slip, she said little. Efil mistook her silence for hostility.
“Artemis, good news about that gallery job—I’ve spoken with them, and I think
it’s yours. They’re good people, plus there’s a European link.” Artemis was
pleased but kept her voice cool. She mentioned she had brought the flash drive
with Musa’s book, asking if Efil wished to read it. Efil shook her head,
uninterested in family matters. Artemis asked if she had seen Musa the night
before he died. Efil found it odd. “No,” she replied, dropping the subject.
Sensing Artemis’s tense aura was oddly seductive, Efil abruptly asked, “Do you
have a boyfriend?” Artemis, peering out the window, answered, “No.” Efil
laughed softly, while Artemis watched the gleaming shape of the grandfather’s
mansion appear in the distance.
Inside, Pertev emerged from a side room to greet them like visitors. Efil
felt irritated: Artemis might be a guest, but Efil had been part of this
household for ages. Pertev was exceedingly gracious, as though courting
Artemis’s approval. Efil wondered why he was trying so hard to win over a
seemingly unimportant girl. Couldn’t he simply ask for the book by email or let
Efil pass him a copy? Her mind raced, especially at the thought that Artemis
might learn too much about his private performances. That was far too risky.
Then she caught the awe in Artemis’s eyes as she gazed at Efil and Pertev, and
Efil’s confidence soared.
Pertev whisked Artemis upstairs to show her his grandfather’s antique
collection. Efil, for her part, hurried off to check the cameras in the performance
room, only to find them gone. Using a computer feed, she replayed footage from
the “Pompeii” performance, focusing on what occurred afterward. Two men hauled
Musa out by his arms. So that was how he left—clearly he had been among the
special guests for that show. Did he have a heart attack right then? Efil
shuddered. As she scrolled further, a blond figure appeared on-screen, smirking
directly at the camera before removing it. Efil didn’t recognize this man.
Surely Pertev meant to confront her about it later.
Descending to the dining room, she noticed four place settings. Pertev and
Artemis were already chatting and laughing. She wondered if the fourth seat was
for Pertev’s father, but then a blond man strode in. Pertev welcomed him
warmly, stepping forward to embrace him. “And here’s the dashing gentleman
who’s also my psychologist.” Artemis chuckled. “A personal psychologist? You
really are rich, I mean—your life is richly populated.” She and the blond man
exchanged polite greetings. Efil realized with a jolt that this was the man who
had removed the camera. He shook her hand. The four sat down.
Artemis handed Pertev the flash drive. “The book is on here,” she said. He
thanked her, planning to give it to his father so he himself could continue
savoring a carefree life a bit longer. “Artemis, do you think it’s worth
publishing?” he asked. She hesitated, noting that it would unleash a tidal wave
of gossip. Stylistically, it was well-paced, likely a bestseller. If Musa had
children, they could film the story and earn a fortune. But certain
sections—especially references to exhuming the grandfather’s body for DNA—would
damage the family’s reputation. Pertev froze. “My grandfather’s grave was
opened?” The blond man patted his shoulder. “Let’s not worry about that now.
Let’s just enjoy the moment.” Efil remained at the table, though no one seemed
to see her. She was well-practiced in patience.
The blond man brought out a greenish bottle after dinner. The food had been
exquisite, and they prepared for a final drink. Efil, planning to drive, had
avoided alcohol, but the blond man insisted she join them for one last glass.
All four downed the peculiar drink in one gulp. Whatever it was began prying
open doors deep within them.
PERTEV
It sometimes amused Pertev to dine with “ordinary” people; it made him feel
free, like strolling in the street as a different person. The final drink left
him utterly relaxed, as if certain no one would remember anything the next day.
He draped an arm over the blond man’s shoulders and confessed, “I was so young
when we first met. A therapy session in London took me back to my childhood—the
moment I saw my father with… that other man.” Efil and Artemis leaned closer,
listening intently. “Which man?” asked Artemis. Pertev said, “His right-hand
man. Musa—Uncle Musa, who brought me that painting. It depicted that moment, my
father and his companion. That’s my trauma.” The blond man embraced him, while
Efil looked on with pangs of jealousy she could not explain.
The blond man locked eyes with Pertev. “What am I to you?” he asked. “My
right hand,” Pertev whispered. Efil’s eyes glistened with tears. “I am your
right hand,” she murmured, not quite sure if she had even spoken out loud.
Artemis gripped Efil’s hand, feeling dizzy. Pertev smirked. The blond man
murmured, “I’m the right hand who set up the hidden cameras,” and Efil,
humiliated and enraged, felt her body go numb. Artemis clutched her stomach.
“I’m going to be sick,” she moaned. Efil led her to the bathroom. Pertev could
hear their muffled voices. The blond man guided him to another room, while Efil
took Artemis into the performance chamber. Artemis still couldn’t throw up, so
Efil steadied her. Gazing into her eyes, Efil whispered, “Musa died here.”
Artemis gave a half-delirious laugh. “At least I didn’t kill him.”
Pertev and the blond man observed them from a hidden vantage. Earlier, Efil
had begged Pertev to let her stage a unique, one-time performance. Efil stroked
Artemis’s hair as she floundered on the bed as if floating. Efil began
undressing. Artemis mumbled something about the police, but Efil hushed her
with a kiss. Artemis couldn’t resist the vertiginous sensation. They fell onto
the bed together, making love under the room’s dim lights, with Pertev and the
blond man watching rapturously. The blond man caressed Pertev’s shoulders. Efil
kissed Artemis’s breasts. For Artemis, who had never been with anyone before,
her first act of intimacy happened right there in the performance room. Efil realized
with shock that the sheets were stained with blood, so she wiped her hands on
them. They clung to one another until Artemis drifted into a dazed sleep. Efil,
head spinning, gathered up the bloody sheets and left. The blond man stood
outside with a wicker basket. Efil placed the sheets inside, and he grinned
wickedly before walking away.
Pertev would hang those bloodstained linens at the entrance of the museum,
weaving an entire story around them, while the video—carefully edited by the
blond man—would become a brilliant piece of “art.” Pertev recognized no
boundaries. He was the God of Art.
All rights belong to the author Evrim Ozsoy. No quotation allowed.
Seven episode series project. God of Art
Yorumlar