Chapter 7 White Castle 5

5(1) In the beginning, I wrote a few pages about my happy childhood at the farm in Empoli, with my siblings, my mother and my grandmother.I don't know why I chose to write down these memories in particular as a way to explore who I am.Maybe it's the nostalgia I should feel for the happy days of my life gone.After I uttered those words in a fit of anger, Hoja kept pushing me, so that I had to, as I do now, to invent something that readers will find credible, and try to make the content interesting.However, at first Hoja didn't like what I wrote, saying that anyone could write such a thing.He doesn't believe that's what people think when they look in the mirror and think, because it can't be the kind of courage I said he lacked.I wrote again: On a hunting trip with my father and brothers, I suddenly stood face to face with an Alpine bear and stared at each other for a long time; we witnessed our dear coachman being trampled by his own horse death, and how I felt when he was dying.After reading this, his reaction was still the same: anyone could write this kind of stuff.

To this, I said, that was all there was for everyone to do; and I had exaggerated what I said before, when I was full of rage, and he shouldn't expect too much.But Hoja didn't listen.I was afraid of being locked up in the room, so I continued to write down the fantasies I had in my mind.In this way, I spent two months evoking and reliving many such memories, all small but memorable.I imagined and relived the good and the bad of my pre-slave life, and found myself actually having fun with it.Now, I don't need Hoja to force me to write anymore.Whenever he says that's not what he wants, I just keep writing another memory and story that I've already prepared.

After a while, noticing that Hoja liked to read what I wrote, I started looking for opportunities to involve him in the same activity.To lay out my persuasive case, I mentioned some childhood experiences: I had a very close friend who got me into the habit of thinking about the same thing at the same time.During the endless sleepless nights when this friend died, I felt a wave of dread.How I feared being thought dead, buried alive with him.I know he will love these things!Soon I ventured to tell him a dream I had had: my body had left me, united with a man who looked like me but had a shadowed face, and the two conspired against me.During those days, too, Hoja kept saying that he heard that absurd refrain again, and more often than before.When I saw that he was deeply affected by this dream, I told him again and again that he should also try this kind of writing.It would both free him from the never-ending wait, and allow him to find the real dividing line between him and those idiots.Occasionally he was still called into the palace, but there were no encouraging developments.At first he was reluctant to accept the writing proposal, but after I tried my best to persuade him, he said that he would give it a try with mixed emotions of curiosity and cowardice.He was afraid that others would find it ridiculous, and even made a joke: When we write together, do we also have to look in the mirror together?

When he said he was going to write together, it never occurred to me that he really wanted us to sit at the same table and write.I thought that when he started writing, I would regain the freedom to do nothing of the lazy slave.I'm wrong.He said that we must sit at opposite ends of the same table and write face to face: only in this way will our lazy minds be on the right track in the face of these dangerous things; In order to give each other a sense of work and order.However, these are excuses.I knew he was afraid of being alone, of feeling alone when he thought.I can also see it from the sight of him looking at the blank pages and murmuring, just loud enough for me to hear.He was waiting for my prior approval of what he was about to write.After scribbling a few sentences, he showed me with childlike humility and eagerness: Are these things worth writing about?Undoubtedly, I support it.

In this way, I have learned in these two months about his life that I have not been able to learn in the past eleven years.His family originally lived in Edirna, a city we visited with the Sultan later.His father died young.He still vaguely remembered his father's appearance.My mother was a hardworking woman who later married again.She has a son and a daughter with her first husband, and four sons with her second husband.Her second husband was a bedding maker.Among the brothers, the one who likes to learn the most is of course himself.At the same time, I also learned that he was the wisest, most capable, hardest-working, and strongest of his brothers; besides, he was the most upright.With the exception of his sister, he had nothing but disgust for his memory of his brother, not sure if it was worth writing about.I gave him encouragement, perhaps realizing then that in the future I would make his style and life story my own.There is something in his diction and temperament that I love and want to learn from.A person should fully like the life he chooses, and I like the life I choose very much.Of course, he thought his brothers were fools.They only come to him when they ask for money.However, he made himself more committed to research studies.He entered Selimiye College, but on the eve of his graduation, he was falsely accused.After that, he did not mention this incident and the topic of women again.At first, he wrote that he almost got married, and then angrily tore up everything he had written.It was pouring rain that night.This was the first of many nights of terror that I would experience later.He insulted me, said everything he wrote was a lie, and then tried to start over.I haven't slept in two days since he forced me to sit across from him and write.He no longer even glanced at what I wrote.I sat at the other end of the table, not bothering to imagine, just writing what I had written in the past, and watching him out of the corner of my eye.

After a few days, every morning he began to write "Why I am the way I am" on expensive white paper bought from the East.But under that heading he writes all about why "they" are so mean and stupid, and nothing else.Still, I learned that after his mother's death, he was mistreated and came to Istanbul with the money he got, and for a while frequented an ascetic monastery, but left again when he saw the vileness and hypocrisy of the people there up.I wanted him to talk more about his experience at the ascetic monastery, and I thought it would be a real success for him to get rid of them: he managed not to join them.When I told him that, he got angry and said that I wanted to hear these vile things so that I could use them against him someday.In fact, he said, I already knew too much, and I wanted to know this kind of-he used a vulgar sexual term here-details, which made him suspicious.Then he told a lot about his sister Semla.How good she was, and how bad her husband was, was sad not to see her for so many years, but when I, too, became curious about the matter, he became suspicious again and moved on to Another topic: because after spending all his money on books, he did nothing but read for a while; afterward he worked here and there as a scribe, and people are so shameless.In these words, he thought of Sadek Pasha again. The news of his death had just come from Al Sinjan.It was during that time that Hoja met him, and his love of science immediately caught the pasha's attention.He was the one who got Hoja the teaching job at the junior school, but he was just another idiot.This writing activity lasted for a month, and finally in one night, he felt so regretful that he tore everything he had written into pieces.Because of this, when I try to recreate both what he wrote and my own experience, I have to rely on my own imagination.I'm not at all afraid to stick to a plot that enthralls me so much.In one last burst of enthusiasm, he wrote something on the subject of "Idiots I Know" and sorted it into categories, but lost his temper again: the writing was of no use to him; he learned nothing new , and still don't understand why he is who he is; I tricked him into pointlessly reminding him of things he didn't want to recall; he's going to punish me.

5(2) I don't know why he kept thinking of the word "punishment" in those days, a word that reminded us of our first days together.I sometimes think that my cowardly resignation made him bold.However, when he first mentioned punishment, I decided to stand up to him.After Hoja was completely tired of writing about the past, he wandered back and forth in the room for a long time.Then he told me that what we should write down is the thought itself: just as a person can examine its appearance in a mirror, he can also see its essence from his own thought. The deft symmetry of the analogy inspired me.We were seated at a table immediately.This time, though half-sarcastically, I also wrote the "Why I Am Who I Am" heading at the top of the page.I immediately wrote down my memory of being shy as a child because looking back on it, it felt like an important personality trait to me.Later, when I saw that Hoja was writing about the meanness of others, I had an idea that I thought was important at the time, and I boldly said it: Hoja should also write about the bad things about himself.After reading what I wrote, Hoja said he was not a coward.I retorted that yes, he wasn't a coward, but like everyone, he certainly had some negative things about him, and if you dig into them, he'll discover who he really is.That's what I do, and he wants to do the same, and I can feel it in him.I found that when I said this, he was very angry, but still controlled himself, and tried to keep his senses and pointed out that it was other people who misbehaved; Everything went wrong.In this regard, I said that there are many annoying and even bad things about him, and he should know this himself.I add provocatively that he is worse than me.

Thus began those ridiculous, appalling, unfortunate days!He tied me to a chair by the table, sat facing me, and ordered me to write down what he wanted to know, but he didn't know what he wanted to know.All he had in mind was the analogy: just as one can look at the outside in a mirror, so one should be able to look inside the mind by thinking.He said I knew how to do it, but kept the secret from him.While Hoja sat before me, waiting for me to write the secret, I filled the paper before me with exaggerated tales of my own faults: I wrote with glee about the base thefts of my childhood, the lies of jealousy, The tricks designed to be more loved than siblings, as well as the youthful and reckless relationship between the sexes, more and more facts are laid out as they are written.I marveled at the insatiable curiosity with which Hoja read these stories, and seemed to take a queer pleasure from them.After watching it, however, he became even more annoyed with me, reinforcing the abuse that was already out of proportion.Perhaps this is because he has realized that the future will regard these as his past, and he cannot bear such a sinful past, so he cannot bear it.He started hitting me.After watching one of my crimes, he'd yell, "You villain!" and punch me hard in the back, half-jokingly.I also slapped me directly because I couldn't restrain myself.Perhaps he did it because the court called him less and less;But the more he read the self-crime I had written down, and added the nasty and childish punishment, the more I was in a strange sense of security: for the first time I had the thought that I had him caught. In the palm of my hand.

Once, after he hurt me badly, I caught him pitying me.But it was a malevolent emotion, mixed with a revulsion to feel no longer equal to someone: he could finally see me without hatred, and I felt it. "Let's not write any more," he said. "I don't want you to write any more," he later corrected, because for weeks he stood by while I wrote about my sins.He said we should leave the house, bury every passing day deep in the shadows, and travel, perhaps to Gebze.He planned to return to astronomy and considered writing a more precise discussion of ants' behavior.It disturbs me to see him about to lose all respect for me.In order to maintain his interest, I once again made up a very demeaning story about myself.Hoja read the story with relish, and was not angry even after reading it.I know, he's just wondering how I can tolerate being such an evil person.Or maybe, seeing such despicable deeds, he didn't want to imitate me anymore, and was very content to be himself until the end of his life.Of course, he is also very clear that all this can be said to be a game.The way I spoke to him that day, like a court jester who knows he's not being treated like a man, tried to further his curiosity: if he tried to write about his mistakes one last time before leaving for Gebze, What is there to lose in order to know "what I am"?He doesn't even need to write the truth, and he doesn't need people to believe it.If he does, he will learn about me, and people like me, and such knowledge will help him someday!Finally, he couldn't help his curiosity and my nonsense, and said that he would try it the next day.Of course, he didn't forget to add that he did it because he wanted to, not because I was fooled by my ridiculous game.

The next day was the happiest of my days as a slave.Although he didn't tie me to a chair, I sat across from him all day to enjoy watching him transform into someone else.At first, he was so convinced of what he was doing that he didn't even bother to write the ridiculous headline at the top of the page: "The Reason I Am".Later, with the confident attitude of a naughty kid searching his brain for a funny lie, I could catch glimpses of him remaining in the safety of his own world.But this smug sense of security didn't last long; neither did the phony guilt he feigned toward me.Soon, his mockery turns to anxiety, and the game becomes reality.Even though it was only a pretense, playing this self-reproaching role had already overwhelmed and horrified him.He immediately smeared out what he wrote without showing it to me.But his curiosity was piqued, and I think he was ashamed in my presence.He continued to write.Had he followed the first instinct in his mind to leave the table immediately, he might not have lost his peace of mind.

Over the next few hours, I watched him slowly figure things out: He wrote something he blamed, then tore it up without showing it to me.Each time he lost more confidence and self-esteem, but then he started all over again, hoping to get back what he had lost.He was going to show me those confessions; but in the evening, I still didn't see a word of what I was eager to see, and he tore up and threw them away, and his energy was exhausted.His self-confidence was at its lowest point when he yelled insults at me, calling it a disgusting heretical game.I even cheekily replied that he should not be so sad, he would get used to his deterioration.Perhaps because he couldn't bear my gaze, he got up and went out the door.He came back late at night, and from the smell of his perfume, I knew that, as I guessed, he had gone to sleep with those sleazy women. The next afternoon, in order to motivate Hoja to continue writing, I said to him that of course he was strong enough not to suffer from such innocuous games.Besides, we're doing it to learn something, not just to pass the time, and eventually he'll understand why the person he calls an idiot is the way he is.Wouldn't it be fascinating that the two of us could really get to know each other?I propose that one becomes as enamored with a person whom one knows so well as a nightmare. He took these words as lightly as he would the flattery of a court dwarf.So it wasn't my words that made him sit at the table again, but the security of the sun.When he rose from the table that night, he was less confident in himself than he had been the day before.Seeing him go out again that night to find sex with whores, I felt sorry for him. 5(3) And so every morning he would sit at his table, believing that he could rise above the evil that was about to be written that day, and hoping to regain what had been lost the day before.But every night, he leaves more remnants of confidence on the table.Now that he has discovered his meanness, he can no longer despise me.I think I've finally found a sense of equality, and the sense of equality I had in those early days with him was an illusion.It makes me very happy.He would be uncomfortable in my presence, so he said I don't have to sit at the table with him anymore.This is also a good sign, but after years of building up emotions, my anger is now out of control.I wanted revenge, attempted attack.Like him, I lost my peace.It seemed to me that if Hoggardo could be made to doubt himself a little, if he could see some confessions which he was careful not to let me see, and subtly make a fool of him, then he would be the slave and sinner in this room, and not I .In any case, these are already signs: I feel that he wants to make sure that I am not laughing at him; like those weak people who have no self-confidence, he has begun to wait for my approval; My opinion: does his costume fit?Did he answer someone correctly?Do I like his handwriting?What am I thinking?Not wanting to make him so desperate that he would give up the game, sometimes I put myself down in order to boost his morale.He'd give me "you bastard!" looks, but stopped punching me.I believe it was because he thought he too deserved a beating. I was extremely curious about the confessions that made him feel so self-loathing.But since I'm used to thinking of him as inferior - even if only in private - I think those confessions must be some small and trivial evil.Now, when I try to conjure up one or two of these never-seen confessions in order to give some authenticity to my past, I somehow just can't figure out what faults Hoja might have committed—those Mistakes that would destroy the coherence of my story and the life I imagined.But I suspect that a man in my position finds his self-confidence again: I must have said that I made Hoja discover something unconsciously, though not explicitly, to show the faults of himself and people like him; and I probably thought that the day was not far off when I would settle accounts with him and others; that I could destroy them by proving how evil they were.I believe that those who read my story will now understand that Hoja has learned from me, and I should have learned as much from Hoja!Maybe, I think now, because we look for symmetry as we grow older, and we look for more symmetry in fiction.I must have lost control of the hatred I've built up over the years.After having Hoja thoroughly demeaned myself, I would have him accept my superiority, or at least my independence, and have the audacity to demand my book of freedom back.I dreamed that he would set me free without any complaints, and thought how I would write my own adventures and books about the Turks when I returned home.How easy it is for me to be overwhelmed!One morning, he told me a piece of news that suddenly changed everything. A plague has broken out in the city!Since he seemed to be talking about not Istanbul but another distant place when he said it, I didn't believe it at first.I asked him how he got the news, I wanted to know all the details.Because the number of sudden deaths soared for no apparent reason, it was understood that there was some kind of disease.I thought maybe it wasn't the plague after all, so I asked him about the symptoms of the disease.Hoja laughed at me, saying that I don't need to worry, if I get sick, I will know for sure, and if a person has a fever for three days, it can be concluded that he has this kind of disease.Some had swellings behind the ears, others a lymphatic lump in the armpit or abdomen, followed by a fever; sometimes boils burst, sometimes blood was coughed up from the lungs, and others coughed violently to death like a consumptive patient.Hoja also said three or five people died in each neighborhood.I asked apprehensively about our surroundings.Haven't I heard of it?A bricklayer who had quarreled with all his neighbors because his children were eating the apples from his garden and because their chickens had entered his house over the wall died screaming from a high fever a week ago.It is not known until now that he died of the plague. Still, I don't want to believe it.Everything outside seemed to be as usual, and the people passing by were so calm. If I really wanted to believe that there was a plague, I seemed to have to find someone who shared the panic with me.The next morning, while Hoja was on his way to school, I ran out into the street.I searched for Italians who had converted to Islam, and these were the people I was able to meet during these eleven years.One of them, whose name was changed to Mustafa Reyes, went to the shipyard; and the other, Mr. Osman, refused to let me in at first, although I knocked on the door as if I was about to knock it open with my fist. his door.He asked the servant to say that he was not at home, but he couldn't help calling me after me.Why am I still asking if this disease is real? Haven't I seen those coffins being carried in the street at all?He then said that I could tell from my face that I was scared and that I was scared because I was still a Christian!He taught me that to be happy here you have to be a Muslim.But before disappearing back into his dank, dark room, he neither shook my hand nor reached out to touch me.It was prayer time, and when I saw the crowd in the mosque's courtyard, I felt a wave of panic and hurried home.I have the stupidity and panic that people have in the face of disaster.I seem to have forgotten my past, my memory is blank, and I can't move.Seeing the coffin being carried by the crowd on the block broke my spirits completely. Hoja had come home from school, and I felt he was happy to see me like this.I found that my fear bolstered his confidence, which irritated me.I wanted him to let go of his conceited pride in thinking he was fearless: trying to suppress my excitement, I poured out all the medical and literary knowledge I knew.I related the plague scenes from my memory in the works of Hippocrates, Thucydides, and Boccaccio, and said that it was believed that the disease was contagious.These words only made his attitude more contemptuous, and had no effect on him: he said he was not afraid of plague, because disease was God's will, and if a man is destined to die, he will die.So the cowardly, stupid things I'm talking about - like staying at home, cutting off contact with the outside world, or trying to escape Istanbul - are of no use.If it is fate, even if we flee elsewhere, death will find us.why am i afraidIs it because of the crimes I've been writing about for days?He smiled as he spoke, with a hopeful twinkle in his eye. Until the day we lost each other, I still can't tell if he really believed what he said.For a moment I was terrified to see him so brave, but then I recalled our discussions at the table, and the terrible games, and I was suspicious again.He was going around in circles, leading the conversation back to the sins we had written together, repeating the same thought with a pompous attitude that almost drove me mad: See how I fear death so much, that I have never written since I pretended to be brave. Free yourself from the evils that follow you.The courage shown by the confession of my crimes is only due to my audacity?Yet he was so troubled to fixate on the slightest lapse that he hesitated for a moment.Now he was at ease, and the intense fearlessness he had felt in the face of the plague had left him no doubt in his mind that he must be innocent. I was disgusted by this statement, which I foolishly believed to be true, and resolved to argue with him.I naively pointed out that his confidence did not come from a clear conscience, but from ignorance of how close death was to him.I explained how we can avoid death.I said that people infected with the plague should not be touched, that the corpses must be buried in pits sprinkled with lime, and that contact with other people should be minimized as much as possible, and that Hoja should no longer go to that crowded school. That last incident I mentioned should have given him ideas worse than the plague!At noon the next day, he said he had touched every child in the school, and then he extended his hands to me.Seeing me shrink back, seeing me afraid of contact, he happily stepped forward and put his arms around me.I wanted to yell, but it was like a dream, but I couldn't make a sound.As for Hoja, he said, in a mocking tone I did not understand until much later, he would teach me what it means to be fearless.