CHAPTER 1: Retirement Days
When Ziya went down to the garden after breakfast, his sister’s children followed him. Since retiring, he had spent most mornings tending his red roses. In his father’s house, where he lived with his sister and her children, he got up at the hour he had grown accustomed to during his working years, ate breakfast, and then began his work in the garden.
He crouched beside the roses. After feeling the surface of the soil with his fingers, he picked up the small hoe. As he carefully loosened the soil around the roots, the children came closer. One bent down to collect the dry leaves he had removed.
“Don’t pull the ones on the branches. Let me remove the dry ones. You collect the ones on the ground,” Ziya said.
He showed them how he loosened the soil, keeping the hoe a little away from the roots. Then he handed the tool to one of the children. When the child dug too deep on the first stroke, he gently held the child’s wrist.
“That’s enough. If you get too close to the base, you could cut the roots,” Ziya said.
The child worked more slowly this time. Ziya watched the child’s hand for a while, then began removing the dry leaves from the rosebush beside him. Whenever the children joined him in the garden, they wanted to finish quickly and were eager to start watering. Ziya, however, showed each of them what he was doing and why.
When it was time to water, he checked the soil again. He did not let the child empty all the water at once.
“Pour a little at a time. Wait for the soil to absorb it,” Ziya said.
The child tilted the container upright and waited. The other child stood in front of a blooming red rose. Seeing a hand reach toward the flower, Ziya gathered the leaves he had removed in his palm.
“It takes a long time to grow a rose, but only a few seconds to pick it,” Ziya said.
The child drew back and looked more closely at the petals.
“Should we never pick them, Uncle?” the child asked.
“If you remember that they’re more beautiful where they are, you won’t want to pick them,” Ziya replied.
When they finished in the garden, they put away the tools. Ziya went back inside, washed his hands, and got his newspaper. The children sat beside him for a while, talking about what they had done in the garden. After listening to them, he opened his newspaper. On mornings at home, he could devote more time to reading. On days when he was meeting his old friend Nazmi, he kept an eye on the time.
When he folded the newspaper and put it down, it was almost time to meet. He changed his clothes, checked the pocket watch he had inherited from his father, and slipped it into his pocket. He left the house and went to Kızılay.
When he reached Bira Parkı on Sakarya Caddesi, Nazmi was sitting at one of their usual tables. He raised a hand when he saw his friend. Ziya approached and pulled out the chair across from him.
“You’re late today,” Nazmi said.
“I loosened the soil around the roses. I didn’t want to leave the job unfinished,” Ziya replied.
Nazmi put his glass on the table. He knew Ziya paid less attention to the clock once he was in the garden. He signaled a passing waiter and ordered a beer for his friend.
For a while, they watched people passing along Sakarya Caddesi. Ziya also looked at the places where familiar buildings had stood. With new shops opening and more people filling the sidewalks, he could no longer find every place he had once known on this street.
“The city’s gotten crowded again,” Nazmi said.
“I don’t object to that. Of course the city will grow,” Ziya replied.
The waiter brought the beer. Ziya thanked him and drew the glass toward him. After taking a sip, Nazmi turned to his friend.
“Then what bothers you?” he asked.
“Growing is one thing. Erasing the past is another,” Ziya said. “A city doesn’t have to destroy everything old as it renews itself.”
Nazmi nodded. He mentioned one of the old restaurants they used to visit together. Then they talked about buildings that were no longer there, the places where they had met outside them, and the old squares. Each supplied details the other had forgotten, remembering how they had reached the places they described. When the conversation turned to Karpiç Lokantası, Nazmi leaned back with his glass in his hand.
“I’ve never found food anywhere else that tasted like Karpiç’s,” Nazmi said.
“It wasn’t just the food. When you walked in, you saw Ankara’s people and their way of life, too,” Ziya replied.
“There are places we can go and sit now, but none that give you the same feeling,” Nazmi said.
“Because it wasn’t only the buildings that changed. The city’s way of life changed, too,” Ziya replied.
As Nazmi talked, Ziya listened, occasionally glancing between the tables and toward the street. He watched the waiters trying to keep up with the occupied tables and newcomers looking for seats. After surveying the vehicles waiting by the curb, he turned back to his friend.
Two men at the table across from them stopped talking and looked around several times. A little farther away, a man still had the same newspaper open in his hands that he had held since arriving. When Ziya glanced that way again, he saw that the man was not reading but staring ahead. He did not keep watching him. What he had seen was not enough to form a judgment about those people.
Nazmi turned in the direction he was looking, then smiled at his friend.
“You’ve retired, but you still haven’t given up studying your surroundings,” Nazmi said.
“A man can leave his job, but he can’t immediately leave behind habits he’s acquired over the years,” Ziya replied.
“Have you spotted someone suspicious again?” Nazmi asked.
“No. I’m just looking,” Ziya said.
Nazmi nodded and reached for his glass. Ziya took a sip of his beer as well. The morning he had begun in the garden continued at their usual table with his old friend, and he returned his attention to Nazmi as he spoke.
