The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 2

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The next day, the heat wave that had been building since the beginning of July finally sat down on Istanbul and decided to stay.
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The situation was perfect for what happened next: the telephone and internet connections went down, and the water service stopped. I was now stuck with no water, no telephone, no internet, no TV, and I could only leave the apartment at considerable risk of not being able to get back inside because the outside lock would not accept my key. All I could do was read, nap and sweat inside in solitude.
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I discovered the water problem after having done my morning ‘business.’ I depressed the flush button and heard ‘klunk’. Klunk? I pushed again. Klunk. I pushed again, harder. KLUNK! Obviously, there was no water in the tank. I calmly arose, closed the lid and walked away. I called Mustafa several times. No answer = no Mustafa = no key = no food shopping and no water = stinky everywhere = PRISONER!
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The following morning, Mustafa called, asking about the lock. I was less than cordial when I explained my situation regarding the toilet and lack of personal hygiene. He responded immediately.
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Eight hours later I could flush the toilet and take a shower.
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The next day, clean but hungry, desperate for human contact since I had not been able to communicate with anyone without the internet since the telephone was connected to the same infernal device as the TV and internet, I developed a cunning plan by which I would be able to get out of the building with a fair hope of being able to return. ‘Forget the toilet paper, it’s too visible,’ read my thought bubble. ‘Tape down the lock with several layers of that sturdy packing tape you used in the move from Kurucesme!’ This worked great for one day, just long enough for me to get trapped outside on a Saturday night. The Kuafur was closed. No Kuafur = no keys, and after several calls, no Mustafa.
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I sat on the warm bricks again, tired, humid and unable to read because Mustafa’s building had no entrance light. After about an hour (during which I began seriously entertaining thoughts of smashing out a pane of glass in the door, grabbing enough stuff to survive and disappearing into the night), a man’s head, unlit cigarette in mouth, popped out of a window two feet from where I sat. Our eyes met. We nodded and exchanged greetings in Turkish. He lit up. I returned to my escape fantasy.
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He finished his cigarette and ducked back inside. Soon he came out a door a storey below where I sat, accompanied by another man who was carrying a knife. They politely shooed me aside, and the guy with the knife started cutting away at the molding around one of the smaller panes of glass in the door (the one I had been fantasizing about breaking). Cigarette Guy asked me if I would like some tea. I innocently declined the offer.
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(Note: Westerners like to drink cold drinks when they are enduring hot weather. Such drinks cool the palate but not the body. Turks drink hot tea during such times because it makes them sweat, by which every slight breeze becomes a heavenly breath of relief.)
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After several minutes of scraping, Knife Guy was able to wedge his blade under the pane and pry it up far enough to get his fingers under it. Then he slid the pane up within its ornamental wrought iron frame, reached under it with his left arm, flipped a toggle which he somehow knew was there (invisible to me), then swung the window casing open far enough that he was able to tilt the pane horizontally and pull it out. Finally, after handing me the pane, he reached through the opening and popped open the lock. Greatly relieved, I shook both men by the hand, whereupon they walked back downstairs. I never saw either of them again.
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The following afternoon, while napping during the enervating heat, the apartment was lashed with a sudden flurry of wind and rain. I was awakened by the slamming of windows and doors throughout the building. I lurched to my feet and ran around closing windows against the driving rain. (Note: This was the only rain Istanbul experienced in the entire month of July, one violent gasp.) Then the electricity went out.
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Most of the electric devices I needed for amusement, communication and enlightenment were not working anyway, but I still needed refrigeration and light. My prolonged imprisonment due to the faulty key had left the refrigerator bare, and now the stairwell had become a spiral pit of blackness - slippery marble steps, no matter what the hour of day. Luckily, I had purchased a pocket-sized flashlight while in Kurucesme to accompany me on my nightly meanderings with Rufus, and this became my saving grace.
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My last days in this apartment were spent reading, negotiating the steps by flashlight to buy necessities, and missing my wife.