"Olacakla öleceğe çare bulunmaz" - There is no remedy for what will be and who will die

Altan whimpered. He'd woken up again - it was 4 am. He never found Ms. Evans... Edith... yesterday. His first idea had been to go to the library of course. That proved impossible - there were people, so many people, blocking the way, and the crowd grew thicker and thicker the closer to the library he got. He saw flames over their heads and sobbed. What was happening? Where was she? Where did the fire come from? So was the library on fire too? Ah, the mosque was on fire! Where should he go? What should he do now?

Altan tried to push through the mass of people, but he was too old and weak to do so. No one even noticed him and his pleading to pass through. Altan felt powerless and empty, especially without his cart. It was back in his apartment because it would have been foolish to bring it out with him, like he was going to try to sell coffee in the midst of this crisis. But with it he felt important and purposeful, and it would have made a decent battering ram. For hours Altan yelled, pushed, pinched, and tried to squeeze through the crowd with little success. He got just close enough to see that the library itself wasn't on fire, but was that a bonfire of books in the street? Where was Edith? How could this happen? Who'd done this?

Back in his bed, Altan slowly fell back asleep, determined that he would see Edith today. As soon as the sun rose, he'd call upon her in her apartment. He'd have to hurry though, she left early for work... if she even made it back to her apartment.

At 9 am, Altan woke with a start and then jumped out of bed. He was late! The sun had just peeked through the overhanging clouds for a minute, and the brightness had woken the old man. He was so tired from the day before, but he had felt sure his strong will and desire to see Edith face to face would have woken him with such energy and adrenaline that he could have done anything. But it was already 9 am and she'd frown upon his tardiness.

Altan rushed through his apartment getting ready then hobbled down the stairs. Dejá vu he thought. Out on the street, he hurried past Jedediah, still chanting the hymn that had filled the town the day before. Police cars and an ambulance rushed by Altan and he wished he could move that fast. He had to see Edith, talk to her, relieve his guilt.

Upon arriving to the library, Altan noticed the restless, noisy crowd - had they stayed the night? What did they want with Edith and her books? A library was a place of peace and knowledge, not of ignorance and harassment. Altan joined them, again attempting to push through.

"-dead!"

"What?"

"They said she's dead!"

"Who's dead?"

"Some old lady."

"The librarian."

"The librarian?"

"The librarian."

"Dead?"

"Yes!"

"Shame."

Dead? Dead? Altan seemed to sag, weighted down with bitterness and grief, more so than normal for a 70-year-old man. He fell away and drifted back into the cruel landscape of the city. The mosque was gone - was Allah gone? Edith was gone - was his dignity gone? Was his heart? His kahve cart was still around - he could continue to sell his coffee, make money, spend money, provide for himself...

Battered and maimed, as one is when one experiences a great loss, Altan shuffled back to the tower with this knowledge. The simple idea of materialism was the only thing that tied him to humanity now.

"Gülü seven dikenine katlanır" - Who loves a rose will endure its thorns

Altan was late to get up this morning. It was the weekend, it was rainy, and he ran his own business, so there was no need to worry. Though he did feel guilty about missing the first two prayers of the day. So he bowed his head, asked Allah for forgiveness, then shuffled across the room to poke around in the kitchen and perhaps find something to eat.

Shouts, the sound of breaking glass, and other odd noises floated up Wilshire Tower and played about the windows of the residents inside. Altan didn't think anything sounded out of the ordinary from the usual back alley commotion. The rain deadened the noises anyhow, and Altan settled down to peruse Heating and Air: A Beginners Guide. It occurred to him the other day that he lacked in this area of maintenance, and rifling through a few old boxes, he found the solution to his problem.

As soon as he turned to the first page, something in his mind clicked... Ms. Evans! It came flooding back now, that she asked him to fix her heater, him not knowing how, his forgetting their appointment, and now he feared for his life. People say many more things around a person who they think can't understand them than around someone who they think can. Atlan, being Turkish and old, heard a lot of things of that sort, some of which were about Ms. Evans, none of which were good (being chased out of the library by a white-haired midget with a letter knife was a common one). Altan sat frozen for a long while, deciding whether he should face her or flee the country. A bright flash and a sharp crack broke his trance.

Immediately the screams from the street grew in number and volume. Altan turned his head toward the window, but before his gaze reached the crowd below, his eyes caught a sea of brilliant flames dancing in the sputtering rain.

"Bok!" Altan cursed in his native tongue, "No, no, no, Allah not now..." Altan fell to the floor, in prayer before he hit the ground. Within seconds, he was up again moving as fast as he could toward the door. He grabbed his coat just before he slammed the door shut and rumbled down the stairs. Oh, his legs hurt, arthritis was painful, but there was no time to wait for the elevator - the mosque was on fire and the only conclusion that Altan could come to in his hasty thinking was that the world was about to end!

Flying through the exit of Wilshire tower, Altan landed among chaos. Ragged men, naked women, and Asians pushed past him hurriedly, some shouting, some shrieking, some with cameras glued to their faces, clicking away. It was like one of those bizarre dreams where nothing going on makes sense, yet that wasn't important; the dreamer's mission and purpose unified and organized the nonsense so that it wasn't distracting. At this point in time, surrounded by madness, Altan's mission was to find Edith E. Evans before it was too late.

"Ağacı kurt, insanı dert yer" - It is worms which destroy a tree, it is worry which destroys a human

Only the girl with the trumpet bought coffee from Altan today - it was unusually warm for January, 70˚F. But she was up early and there was still a dewy chill in the air, so he suspected that's why she bothered to try to find 25¢ in her back pocket. She looked a little young to be wandering around on her own, but that was no business of Altan's, he had to remind himself. Still, he couldn't help but wonder where she'd come from. He thought she said her name was Gabriela, or was it Priscilla? Anyway, he knew she'd only been in town for a couple of months. She was nice enough at least.

The rest of the day went slowly. The sun seemed to be soaking in its own warmth and taking its time to cross the sky. Altan didn't mind, except that the heat drove people away from hot drinks. He liked people-watching all the same; there was the man in fancy clothing he'd seen at the carnival a couple days before, shouting at chickens, bowing to women, and challenging men. Altan half-wanted the man to come his way, just to see what he would do if Altan offered him kahve. But the man only put his hand on another man's shoulder, said some words, and skipped away. Pity.

There was also Aberdeen Angus, the lovely antique shop owner who currently sat on the bench in front of the shop, arms and legs splayed, not so modestly, basking in the sunlight. Altan had never been to her shop, but whenever he greeted her in the morning, she always waved or smiled. She had her head turned toward Mr. Dave Gorlomi's store, and she appeared to be staring at the man as he gazed absentmindedly out his window. Did she want to be a butcher? No, that couldn't be right, though Altan, she was too sweet for that. Perhaps she wanted to be a butcher's husband? Altan didn't think she was married, but he didn't think she wanted to be tied down either.

The day went on with no remarkable occurrences. Around 2pm an armored truck groaned to a halt in front of the laundromat, smoke seeping out from under the hood. The driver hopped out of the front seat, lifted the hood, and the smoke billowed out into the air with a loud whine. Altan heard the driver yelling curses.

It was 6:30pm when Altan packed up for the day. He was sleepy and didn't feel like waiting for the cool of the night when people might be more inclined to buy his coffee. He had that nagging feeling one gets when one thinks one might be forgetting something. He tried to not think about it, but it was ever so persistent. Altan stopped by Jorri Ray's on the way back to the tower and grabbed a small, wilted salad and a piece of cherry pie to go. The broken down truck was still across the street.

Back in his apartment, Altan ate quietly, content with the day. After his meal, he completed his prayers and tidied up. He then just stood, staring out the window, knowing he'd done everything that he'd needed too, but he still felt like he was forgetting something... it was 8:36pm. Sighing, Altan went to bed.

"Hatasiz Kul Olmaz" - Flawless human is impossible

Altan was happy to be back at work. He was making more money than usual and he was euphoric over the hustle and bustle of the carnival. Not only did he stand out, striding between the crowds, yelling as loud as he could ("KAHVE! 25¢! GET COFFEE HERE!"), but he had become another attraction. People still believed he was a gypsy, but they didn't expect from him the things they had before; he was the funny little man with the colorful, jingly cart and spicy drink, a drink that, if you were brave enough to consume it, would increase your longevity and bring about a prosperous future... or so people said. Altan was clueless to the rumor, and he could care less that people asked strange questions like, "So, is it true?" or "How much do I need for it to work?" Altan would just smile and nod, smile and nod.

Altan's exotic charm was not the only thing attracted attention. The side of his cart had been plastered with political signage and he had a live chicken, endlessly squawking (he'd found it sitting in front of the Tower), sitting in an old, rusty bird cage that had been tied down to the front corner of the cart. All sorts of people confronted him throughout the day: people who supported the local candidate, those who did not, people who thought he was selling the chicken, people that yelled at him for encouraging the cruelty of animals, and people who would just gawk as he passed by, wondering where such an odd entity with its entourage materialized from. By the end of the day, though Altan thrived off of humanity, he had had enough.

Altan stopped answering questions and ignored all comments and insults shouted his way. The only people he paid mind to were the gawkers; they were the only people showing no movement whatsoever in this mass of motion. They were almost completely immobile, and they stood out to Altan like neon signs. There was a girl with a frizzy, blond wig, a man who was overly dressed, and a girl who looked like she'd just escaped a fire. At this moment, they all embodied what Altan desired - stillness.

Wearily, Altan made his way back to the Tower and dragged himself inside. He'd gotten so used to the chicken that he'd forgotten that it was still tied to his cart. The doorman made exaggerated movements and screamed at Altan to "get it out!" before the super heard it. Altan hastily grabbed the chicken and threw it out the door, not wanting to displease the doorman. Altan called for the elevator and it clattered down, screeching to a halt, and its doors opened. Altan saw there was someone else inside, so he waited for them to exit.

"Well, are you coming in or not?" Altan's head snapped up - it was Edith Evans, the lady who'd helped him out of the elevator the other day.

"Oh, how's is your ceiling, Ms. Evans?"

"I could tell you if you just got on the elevator," The elevator door was trying to close and it kept rebounding off of her thin arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, excuse me," and Altan backed in, careful not to roll the cart over Edith's toes. The door slammed shut and the elevator began to haul them upward.

"Still dry, thank you."

"What?"

"The ceiling, the thing you just mentioned," Edith gave him a "what's-wrong-with-you" look.

"Oh, yes, very good." They didn't speak again until Altan got off the elevator on the fifth floor.

"Can you fix heaters?" Edith had flung her arm out to stop the door from closing.

"Well -"

"Come by my apartment tomorrow at six and see if you can't fix mine. No one will want to buy that... is it coffee? after five will they? Won't be able to sleep. I'll expect you."

The elevator door shut and rumbled upward. Altan stared at the door confused. Well, he'd never actually fixed a heater before, but he was not one to stand people up, especially not a lady. Sighing, he pushed his cart down the hall, ready for sleep.

"Can çıkmayınca huy çıkmaz" - Habits don't expire until the soul expires

Altan was in a better mood this week - the rain had lifted for the most part, and the sun always reminded Altan of home, which made him think of simpler times. He tottered through the door of the mosque and out onto the street, his still sore, swollen wrist tucked into the front of his jacket. Like Napoleon, he thought, and he smiled a little, thinking about what it would be like to be an emperor, rule the world, and not have to worry about money...

Osiris Stien was walking toward Altan, eyes forward and cold, not seeming to register his surroundings. Altan nodded to the other man as they passed one another.

"Good afternoon Mr. Stien!" Osiris said nothing nor gave any other sign of acknowledging Altan's presence. He proceeded purposfully into the mosque behind Altan. Altan sighed, disappointed. No one seemed to take notice of him without his coffee cart. Not that many people did when he was with it, but someone always came by to ask him the price of a cup ("25¢ as always!") or tell him he was only wearing one sock ("Oh me, how unprofessional..."). It was human contact that Altan looked forward to most in his job. He had grown up in a very friendly home and it was something he had just gotten used to. Altan had become accustomed to the social detachedness of Americans over the years, so he was just happy for someone to look in his direction. He would always respond with a smile, or a nod, or a wave.

But Altan had been without simple human contact for at least a month now, and he was beginning to feel strained and stressed. Not only did Altan miss people, he was missing rent payments, and the bills were piling up on his floor by the door in his apartment. He'd just received a notice today, in person (which brought about an exuberant smile on his weathered face when he opened the door), that he had a week to pay 50% or he'd be evicted. This of course doused the weak flame of cheer that had sparked from the simple conversation, making Altan realize that the money aspect of his job was important too.

He would start again tomorrow, he decided, on Monday, a normal weekday. He had been out all day, getting the feel for the streets again, figuring out where the masses were congregating. At this moment in time, it happened to be at the carnival in the empty lot at the end of the street. Altan stood and watched it from a distance, listening to the screams of people, the groaning of machinery, and the general hum that surrounds large crowds. Cars, tracks, swings, and boats from the carnival's various rides flew up and down through the air or were silhouetted against the red sky. The whole entity resembled a giant, prehistoric sea monster, thrashing about in colorful, volatile primordial soup.

The fact that this is where everyone wanted to be, amidst the most excitement the town had seen in years, proved unlucky for Altan. No one would notice him and his coffee cart in the crowd of carnival attractions. They'd most likely (as Altan unfortunately knew from experience) assume he was a part of a gypsy caravan and either ask him to tell them their fortunes or beg to be whisked away into a land of wild living and adventure. As Altan could do neither, they'd just grunt, scowl, or curse and leave without buying anything. No, carnivals were not for Altan; he'd just have to attract customers as they entered and exited the festivities.

The next morning, anyone who went out at 6:00 AM would have seen a little, brown man, possibly a gypsy, setting up a cart right in the middle of the entrance to the carnival. He skipped around, locking things into place, taking out cups, mixing spices, and boiling water. It was Altan, and he was ready for whatever the day would bring. He stood there armed with his coffee cart, his entrepreneurial skills, and a large, bright smile upon his face.

"El elin eşeğini türkü çığırarak arar" - One searches for someone else's missing donkey while singing songs.

Altan felt miserable. It was Monday and he was holed up in his apartment with nothing to do. His cart was in shambles, his wrist was sprained, and he had a hard enough time selling coffee when he was parading up and down the street. He put a sign up outside his door anyway: "Hot, strong coffee HERE - Only 25¢!" Allah worked in mysterious ways - Altan had hope.

That morning, Altan had returned the money he'd pilfered from the doorman to the doorman's desk drawer. Altan felt guilty for taking it after thinking that perhaps the poor man had probably just gone to the bathroom. Altan also left the $2.50 he'd made the previous day as thanks to the doorman for tending his cart.

The day was cloudy, but the precipitation had subsided. Altan sat next to his window, observing passersby on the street below. If only he could be down there... the market was full of opportunity this day. A fair had set up down the road early in the morning causing just enough racket to let everyone know it was there. As the day progressed more and more people made their way toward it, many of whom clearly weren't going for the rides, but simply wanted to peruse, check out the scene. Altan saw Braxton carrying all of his lemonade supplies in his arms as he made his way down the street to where the crowd was. Altan snorted - he detested the fact that this devious little boy who peddled overpriced, tasteless lemonade made more sales than him, an honest, experienced man who sold fine Turkish coffee for only 25¢.

Suddenly the sound of sirens filled the air and Altan shivered - that noise was still to familiar to him. A fire truck whizzed down the street, its horn blaring, its garish lights illuminating the windows of the buildings it passed. Altan moved away from his window, having no desire to know the cause of this disturbance. There was a knock on his door - thanks be to Allah! Someone wanted some coffee. Altan shuffled across the room and opened the door with a flourish.

"Care for kahve, Ms. Nox?" The repair woman was holding a pen and notepad and gave him a look.
"The super needs to know if you have any leaks." Altan's smile slipped slowly off his face and he sighed, disappointed.
"Oh, yes, well, the window is -"
"Got it."

Edna walked off without another word, making a mark on her paper. Altan stood there for a minute, disheartened, before shutting the door. No one needed him, no one wanted his coffee. What a miserable Monday.

"Ak gün ağartır, kara gün karartır" - A white day sheds light, a black day sheds darkness.

Altan was having a tough day and he didn't always manage "tough" well. He hardly had enough time to sell his coffee between the sputtering showers that had left puddle-filled potholes and slippery sidewalks, making it difficult to plod up and down the street after customers who were only too eager to get out of this bitter drizzle. Altan almost got a sale out of a very drunk Dave Gorlomi, but Dave seemed to realize that the strong Turkish coffee would help to alleviate his intoxication, so he stumbled off in the other direction.

"But Mr. Gorlomi! It's good for you!"
"No! I don't - coffee! You can't makemedrink!" Dave was quite inebriated and uncooperative, so Altan gave up - he disliked stubborn drunks anyway.

Every time it started to rain, Altan would go back to Wilshire Tower and drag his cart up five flights of stairs to his apartment (little Braxton, standing guard in front of the elevator, informed Altan that the elevator was broken). After the third time he'd made this trek, Altan's knees were began to throb and his back started to ache. The next time it started to rain, Altan asked the doorman if he would please watch the cart if Altan left it by the stairs - Altan assured the man that he would get some small compensation. The doorman replied with a reluctant, "Sure." Altan thanked him and padded slowly up to his room, worn out.

Around four in the afternoon, the rain eased up again and Altan took his coat and gloves and headed downstairs. The doorman was no longer at his post though his jacket lay across the chair behind the desk. Altan thanked Allah that his cart was still in its place despite the doorman's inexcusable absence. As he pushed it toward the door, he halted. Why was it so quiet? Where was the bell? Altan looked anxiously all around the cart, felt in the drawers, peered into the multiple bags and jars, but it was gone. The metal hook that usually held the little trinket in place was bent out straight as if someone had yanked the bell from the cart spontaneously in passing. Altan huffed in annoyance - what was the point of a doorman if he didn't guard the entrance from thieves and hoodlums? Altan grabbed the doorman's jacket, found his wallet, and snatched a couple bills. Altan threw the jacket and wallet back onto the floor - that should teach the doorman keep watch more closely.

No one was out this afternoon and no one ever came out though Altan continued to roam up and down the block until well into the evening. The rain started to come down again around suppertime, so Altan decided to head in for the night. As he ate his dinner, back in his apartment, he counted his days earnings: $2.50, plus the $10 he filched from the doorman's wallet, just enough to pay for utilities this month. The mosque's speaker squeaked as the muezzin prepared for isha. Altan rolled out his mat and participated dutifully, and continued to pray long after the required ritual had ended, thanking Allah for providing him with the small gift he'd received off the doorman's laziness. Just as he was preparing to put his mat away, there was a bright flash of lightening, a boom, then all was quiet and dark.

"Kahretsin!" Altan cursed under his breath. He threw the mat on the floor and shuffled, exhausted, off to bed. He had wanted to clean up and count out come cash for a new bell, but what was the point? It was dark, it was cold, and the rain that was leaking through his crooked, weathered window would have made tidying up tougher than he could handle at this moment. He decided to forget it all and went to sleep.

......................................................................................................

Altan sat bolt upright in his bed. He groped for the switch on the lamp and turned it on. He squinted around the room, a troubled look on his face. His suspicions were confirmed and he grunted, exasperated. His cart was missing and he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Knowing he had to find it (or no longer be able to sell coffee to pay for his room), Altan untangled himself from his blankets and scrambled out of bed. Grabbing his jacket and slippers, he made for the door, giving a small glance back to his little wall clock - 11:51 pm. Why did he have to think of his cart now, so late at night? He grabbed the poker he kept in the umbrella stand by the door. Just in case.

Altan scurried down the stairs and reached the lobby, hoping he'd left the cart by the doorman's desk as he had done the last time. It wasn't there, nor was it anywhere else inside, so far as he could tell. He cautiously poked his head out the building and looked up and down the street, but saw nothing. If he had left it outside, he didn't really expect it to still be sitting out in the street, untouched. What could he do now? The police couldn't and wouldn't do anything - it was just a stupid little cart, and the loss was no more than another statistic proving that this part of town was no good.

Altan groaned and made to pull himself back inside, but something red, laying in a puddle, caught the light of the streetlamp and Altan paused to fully focus on the thing. Those were his prayer beads! The same ones he hung on his cart! Altan dropped his poker and rushed out to grab them, then desperately looked around - could his cart be nearby, per chance? And there it was, tucked behind the corner of the building, out of sight to all except the one who was searching for it. For the first time that day, Altan grinned and gleefully backed his cart out of it's little niche.

A dark minivan slowly drove under the overpass and toward Altan; Altan didn't even notice, or didn't care enough to notice as it drew closer - he was too delighted with his recent find. Five feet from him, someone in the van cried out angrily and four deafening cracks punctuated the night's silence, just as Altan squatted behind his cart to rehang his prayer beads. The corner of the cart splintered violently as bullets flew through the wood, shattering Altan's glass jars of spices, and ricocheting off the concrete wall behind him. Altan had fallen, terrified and in shock, so much so that he was frozen in a shout of horror. The van's tires squealed as it zoomed away, leaving only steaming puddles behind.

Altan lay in the muck and rubble of his dismembered cart, not fully aware of his ordeal. His mind was simply taking note of the following events, not really comprehending them: a woman was shouting, someone was trying to help him up, there were sirens in the distance, his wrist hurt, he inhaled, he exhaled; there was no doubt, Altan's day had been very tough indeed.