aklıma takıldı

ARTEMIS Artemis era intenta a osservare la fotografia su un voluminoso libro d’arte. L’immagine raffigurava l’affresco della “Creazione di Adamo” nella Cappella Sistina. Un anziano uomo barbuto, circondato da angeli, tendeva la mano verso Adamo. Mentre le dita di Artemis sfioravano la foto, risuonò una voce maschile profonda:   «Non puoi toccare Dio!»   Artemis sorrise; accanto a lei si avvicinò un uomo con il bastone, Musa, il celebre storico dell’arte del paese. Con quel volto imponente, somigliava davvero al Dio rappresentato nei dipinti delle chiese, solo senza angeli attorno. Artemis iniziò a dire:   «Lei gli somiglia…»   Ma la frase si interruppe. Musa replicò:   «Nessuno può somigliargli.»   Musa era un docente estremamente disciplinato. Pur avanti con gli anni, continuava a insegnare all’università e spesso invitava i suoi studenti a conversazioni informali a casa sua. Ripeteva sovente una frase: «Senza conoscere il pas...

  ARTEMIS The next morning, Artemis woke up disoriented in the mansion, remembering little from the night before. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead. Efil knocked softly on the door, coming in with a kindly expression. Artemis recalled flashes of the previous night—the swirling euphoria, the forced intimacy, the mention of a policeman hunting for artifacts. She tried to rise, thinking maybe she could poke around for clues in the house. But her head throbbed, sunk deep into the pillow. Efil sat on the bed, saying nothing at first. When Artemis asked about breakfast, Efil’s face grew solemn. She explained that they needed to discuss what happened between them. Efil confessed she had truly treasured their intimate moment but had no idea Artemis was still a virgin. Artemis, her memory returning, said she had no regrets, for Efil was enchanting. Efil burst into tears, which Artemis gently wiped away, wanting to console her. Then Efil made a trembling admission: their tryst had not re...

  ARTEMIS By morning, Artemis remembered little. She awoke alone, her mind replaying only fragments—the policeman investigating antiquities, her determination to find clues in the house. Yet her body felt leaden, pinned to the bed. Efil tapped on the door. Seeing her face, Artemis slowly recalled shards of the previous night. She braced for Efil’s reaction. Efil approached softly, sitting beside her on the bed, silent. When Artemis asked if there was any breakfast, Efil turned grave, explaining they had to clarify what had happened between them. “First of all,” Efil began gently, “I want you to know I’m truly happy about what we shared last night. You mean a lot to me. If I’d known you were still a virgin, I’d have waited for a more special moment.” Artemis’s mind started piecing the events together. “So we really did… I’m not ashamed. You’re amazing,” she said. Efil broke into tears, unable to contain her emotion. Artemis reached up to wipe them away. Efil looked like a child ...

  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 reco...

  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 Istan...