Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 1

.
For most of July, I lived alone, free of charge in an apartment in a small row of buildings welded together by years of corroding cement. This apartment is rented by a married couple of fellow MEF teachers. The husband is French, the wife English; they have a boy toddler, and are spending the month in France with family. They offered their apartment to Nancy and me since our lease in Kurucesme ended at the end of June, and we could not move into our new school-provided apartment until August.
.
Nancy left for the US on the 7th, and all I was expected to do was keep the apartment clean, stay out of trouble, and water the plants. Reduced to bachelor status for the first time in decades, I am proud to say that I kept the plants watered, I think.
.
We were given a single set of two keys, one to open the door to the building, the other to open the apartment, which is quite lovely, sitting on the top floor above two others, with a partial view of the Bosphorous, and a soothing cross breeze whenever the breeze decides to cross through, which was rare, as it has been very hot in Istanbul and the building is not air-conditioned. But I am long-suffering, not one to complain about such things, especially when the lodging was free, and all I had to do is keep the place clean, stay out of trouble and water the plants. (Note to self: don’t forget to water the plants.)
.
Immediately upon moving in, we began having difficulty with the outside lock. The key would enter the lock but not engage, rotate left (which did nothing) then resist until it eventually turned right (after much urging and under-the-breath cursing) and usually get stuck again, so that the whole process had to be repeated (as the cursing became less and less under-the-breath) until eventually, for whatever reason, the lock gave that reassuring ‘click’ that admission had been gained. We thought nothing of it; after all, why complain about a sticky lock when you’re living rent free?
.
As soon as Nancy left, however, the apartment sensed my vulnerability—the telephone became unreliable, the television (which boasts hundreds of channels, including international rugby, my favorite) would only give me international news, and the internet went down. ‘Fine,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just read, play Bach on the electronic keyboard, and watch TV as Al Jazeera, BBC and CNN try to convince me how exciting the Tour de France is, wait for Nancy to call and, if there’s time, maybe read.’ Back to the lock.
.
(Note: Greg is a patsy for any frustration created by his inability to manipulate simple, inanimate objects, like can openers and screw drivers. In the past, this lock problem would have turned him into a frothing, profane lunatic. Wait, isn’t that in his resume?)
.
The lock would seize up the minute I began coming up the steps. I could hear its gears linking arms and muttering, “OK, boys, scrum down and hold fast.” I was apparently the only person living in the building, since no one ever answered my door buzzings. For the first week though, the lock eventually gave in to my efforts and epithets. Inevitably, one afternoon the lock would not budge. My impotent struggles eventually got so bad that they began to attract the attention of the neighbors.
.
First to approach were the street boys. As I slumped physically and emotionally exhausted in the July heat on one of the brick shoulders of the porch, one boy after another would drop his bike on the curb and go up to the door without making eye-contact or saying a word, grab the keys that I had left dangling from the lock, pull them out, invert them and jab at the keyhole. They all thought I was an idiot who didn’t know how to put a key in right side up. One by one, they would struggle with the key, shrug, reinsert it and walk away to give the next guy chance to turn the key over and repeat the routine.
.
Next came the teenage girls, usually having to abandon younger children in their charge. They always had the courtesy to murmur a shy a greeting, then commenced heaving on the door and pressing the apartment alert buzzers before trying the key. Unsuccessful, they apologized and left. Last were the mothers, who had been observing and discussing the street theater from a distance. Once convinced that their children’s efforts had been thorough, they went into action.
.
The first time no one could force the door open, a mother descended some stairs to an adjacent building. She returned smiling, followed by a young woman who waved at me and said, “Come.” I was soaked in sweat, smelly (what’s new?) and embarrassed, so I waved and deferred. ‘I’ll just wait until the other lodger comes home,’ I thought. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze now, and some shade, so I’ll just sit here and read.’ (I always carry a book, for just this kind of emergency.)
.
The girl shrugged and went back inside. By the time I had opened my book, she was back and insistent. “Come, come,” she waved irritably. I returned the book to my satchel and followed. We passed through a few domestic back rooms and emerged into a beauty parlor (kuafur): five padded chairs facing a wall of mirrors, and a side room with two chairs and sinks. Three women were being colored/quaffed/ shampooed/manicured, etc. by two men and one girl assistant. The proprietor, a middle-aged, bleached blond in a white, tight, sleeveless top and jeans, sat smoking beneath a no smoking poster.
.
All conversation stopped when the large, defeated, sweat-stained stranger entered.
.
One of the women, having black goo swabbed unto her hair with a small brush by a small man, spoke broken English, and asked why I was there. After my answer and her translation, I handed the proprietor the phone number of the building owner, Mustafa. She dialed, connected and handed the phone to me. Mustafa spoke enough English that he could understand that my key did not work. He said he would call me back and everything would be OK. I remained in the Kuafur, reading and sweating. The goo-haired women eventually asked me why I was still there. I told her I was waiting for Mustafa to call back.
.
Mustafa did not call back. After an hour, I went outside, played with a cat and then walked around the block, back to my former perch. Another mother noticed my return, descended into the Kuafur and soon the small man who had been dabbing goo on the English-speaking woman’s head appeared with a ring of keys. His black-stained fingers immediately opened the door. He could have done this at any time. ‘Why,’ I asked myself, ‘if they had the keys all along, had I been sitting there all this time?’ It still makes no sense to me.
.
Inside, I immediately called Mustafa and told him of my frustrations. I can imagine his thought process: guest = no money for me = give him just enough service so as not to alienate the renters. He light-heartedly explained that he had misunderstood -- he thought the key problem involved getting into the apartment, not into the building. His solution was simple: tape some toilet paper over the male end of the lock so it would not engage when I left the building. I had thought of that, of course, but didn’t want run afoul of the law by leaving the building open without permission. “Thank you, Mustafa!” I said, setting down the phone. I could now go outdoors safely and get some groceries.
.
The next morning, my wad of toilet paper was still taped neatly in place, so I decided it would be a good opportunity for me to stroll around Istanbul while the temperature was still cool. No problem -- when I got back, the door swung open and everything was good. ‘Let’s do this again tomorrow,’ we said to ourselves in the royal plural. It was not to be.
.
The next morning, my wad of toilet paper had been ripped loose, dangling from the lock mechanism like an orphaned Kotex. Was this the result of deliberate action or merely an accident? I will never know. I called Mustafa but there was no answer, neither did he have an answering device. ‘What kind of landlord doesn’t receive messages?’ my mind fumed. From the moment on, I did not dare leave the building. I felt trapped, an uninvited, unwelcome prisoner of Mustafa.