WHEN THE TULIPS ARE GROWN

She was tall for a European girl. The kind of woman who knows when to look like a woman.

Her hair was long. Black as coal and healthy, chic. They shined like a grain field under the summer sun. Somehow, she reminded me of an innocent student. She had more to her looks than what one saw. One could feel there was someone else within this shapely body. She did not only look innocent but smart also.

She was from Mostara. The small town, which was devastated many times in the history by invaders from other lands. Having known the villagers of my country, I could expect much less from a truly innocent village girl. However, I did not know what little Yugoslavian towns had to offer to its inhabitants.

I felt drawn to her. The moment I set my eyes upon her in the cafeteria that I had started to frequent for its coffee and distinctive Mediterranean atmosphere. A cup of black coffee along with a glass of pure water always subdued me. More came whilst I gazed through the front window on the passers by, trying to get to their work, mostly, and travelers on dull London mornings and tried to make sense of my presence in another country. If my coffee were served well, that day would dictate the rest of my day.

Everything, every event, every color and everybody around me seemed so unrealistically related to each other. So bluntly intertwined. Almost cyber-SANAL

She reminded me of a long lost friend back home in Australia.

A round and white face with dark eyes set like rubies on a crown. Thick, bow like eyebrows pierced through ones vision. Burning all the ill thoughts immediately. The first time I saw here there, she had a knee long woolen black skirt, duly covering her shape. Each knot stretching on her every step. A black jumper loosely hung around her waist. With the white shirt waiters wore, she did look mature. I wondered what was under the rags covering her body. Looked at her, she caught my gaze and gave a small smile back on the sides of pink lips. Shy, she flicked her long hair towards the back of her head with the wide open long, almost shop window mummy perfection fingers of her left arm.A momentary smile. My heartbeat increased. I yearned to know what was behind that innocently shy look.It had been the crushing smile that had encouraged me to address to her; not as a customer who was just about to leave a large tip to the flirty waitress mind you, but an admirer; a courtier; a knight.

The coffee had tasted better that morning.

It was rainy. There slapped you water everywhere, water chattered; from the never ever soaked the sun, mossy gutters of old town houses, from the curbs water rushed, Good Year brand tire of black London cabs cut through water surging from side streets, water dripped from neon lights hung loosely off the sand stone blocks, splashing colors through the hurrying footsteps of working bodies who had knocked off work barely 15 minutes ago, water gurgled down heavy iron mould 19. Century drainage covers in big whirlpools, water shyly seeking refuge in your heavily covered neck, water splashed off Victorian shop awnings, slid off the stone monuments of heroes past and animals blessed with the grace, water made you feel wet...

Water became condensed on thick glass of coffee shop front windows.

The night was red outside. My feet were soaked. My toes all crinkled up from being in water for so long. They turned a sickening white like the inside of the guts of a goat. They hid under one another, seeking warmth. My legs trembled of excitement, an unknown joy OVERWHELMED. Three steps more and the foggy door window. My hands stick to the door handle. One second, two seconds, three seconds… she is not in the shop... My left hand is in non-controllable fidgeting within my pocket it is housed. Say, what if she changed her mind. The door is open now. Another step and I am inside.

-Is..?,

The Greek owner points up somewhere behind me. A door leading to upstairs.
This must be where she stays. I am surprised.Wild and fierce eyed Greek is silently moving about. Wiping wine glasses, coffee cups, mugs, long glasses, and short glasses, thick or thin glasses. Saucers. Knives forks; wiping the fog off the window to allow bright red and yellow lights seeping through streaks of water left on the glass thick, replaces the cups again, re-changes the places of cake plates rotating on a revolving cylindrical cut glass fixated on a rod so a s to turn continuously on a circular motion. Cleans them. Wipes off fly shit and pieces of strawberry, banana, custard, shepherds pie, choc caramel, honey bun, carrot cake or whatever else cake on exhibit, which one of the cook ladies had fancied to cook for their husbands the week before however because of the poor fuck they received had not and on the heat of the moment like a dog on heat would will want to do, do it there and than and cook it than. He wipes all of them off. His short, frighteningly strong knee length moves and his rich ownership emerge in his exorbitant posture of ownership. And I saw the polished beaks of long necked flamingoes, Melha`s hand released the door handle. Her eyes gleamed. Sparkled, shimmered, almond shaped eye surrounded the lights, the water, the cutlery and the Greek owner stopped gazing.

-I am taking my luggage too. She trilled in whisper, loud enough for the boss to hear.

- Good luck. Replied, lost in words.

Her stockings were patched with spots of water caught in between the stretched knots of nylon, stretching more and in a repetitive motion on her calf in each elegant step in to the pools of water on the pedestrian path. Ever changing their shapes in each movement. Water released from her skin, stuck on nylon thread. Not having anywhere else to escape, prefer to the sweating hot calf majestically finding their place within the passenger seat of the old valiant.

-The wipers are not working properly. They lost their grab. Not my car.

It is wet and cold outside. Cold inside. There is no heating system. It is freezing. It is avoidable. That is expensive.

She radiates a ray of cutting, thin, momentary, flipping bubbles of moist, sticky body fragrant. Own fragrance. Unwashed, protected, kept, purified, proud fragrance of female. It clung in the 2 cubic meters of air space within the run down, uncared for, rotten, puny, cramped, old and deprived of its excellence in the times when it was created by the desire of ever inventing humans, car; mobility on representation. Being able to move from one point to another. Relatively quicker than had the humans had not invented the wheel.

The alloy car key had long ago lost its cutting shape. Anything could fit in the lock. Any key or anything in that prickly shape could have the same effect on the matter of ignition. There. Behind my foggy retina, I could perceive the key hole. It fits.

- I didn’t know you lived up above the shop&

The sparkling piece of intense energy, within one hundredths of a second sparked off the still warm pistons of the engine of the valiant in to a roaring vehicle. The sounds of splitting drops of rain on the front window froze and soon the rhythm of wet caught the engine’s automated beating, pounding the wheel pistons into motion. Moving.

- I do not any more…

The upper torso of engulfing flame of coal heat, frying electrical current created an aurora of self-protective cover of ones limbs. Happy as a kid who found a few shiny marbles along the banks of lonely pine splattered, eucalyptus forests of ancient times he mellowed. Soon the miserable air zone of the Valiant was a cave. A womb. A moving vehicle. She freed her hair of the oppressing protection of the black beret, slightly tilted to the left with her free hand, snuggled up to my left biceps.

An unknown to me map of London under her black suede stilettos. I cannot possibly remove myself of such exhilarating selflessness created by the stimuli of blood rubbing the inner layers of my veins, just to reach to the Map of London.

Second gear.

Steady. It is raining out there. Rats wont dare to wander outside in search of scavenge. The street lamps dimly exhibit the vision of rain going through a haze of light, as if firebugs screwed in the air. Motionless yet continuous.

The lip parts moist.

The lip lightly injects comfort on a point of unshaven cheek; tensely pulled by crushing jaws of a typical carnivore.

The muscle holding lower side of his chin to the upper side of his skull twitches uncontrollably for a crevice to fit , rest, slide, crawl, creep, lick, rub, enter, stick, fill, in.

Third gear and the motion upwards, completing the third run of a five gear motor. Now his chin finds the just point up on her skull. Just where the hair parts into two rival lots of waves. Cut through to the neck as though with the tip of a razor blade.

No need to lock the car. The rain allows them-YOU to walk about one hundred meters without the protection of the pitter patter of rain by an umbrella, a book, a magazine, a bag, a piece of plastic, a hat, a large leaf. It is a nice walk. The stones on the path are sucking the water in. Sand stone. Shaped by the sweat of the slave. Straining the water in purifies the water. Selects the dirt of Kensington streets, does not allow dirt to go into its womb. Clears the cigarette butts, gum packaging, hair pieces, dog shit, snot, gung, piss, vomit, wine, perfumed sweat of whores, impatient semen off men, the dust in the air, broken peaces of memories, cant juice, a worn piece of thick green colored glass, caught between the tongues of the drainage grill, anything alien to the earth also were interrupted. Water glides through. Relieved off burdens. Hugs the earth. Claims it is self-back. Leaves the dead up. Seeped.

The stairway of a 5-storey building, designed so as to save as much as space as can be from the little block of collateral mortgaged to lord something or other in the 17th century. The Scots roamed the hills than, here. looks winding up endlessly. The cold terracotta screams, “get away from me “creaks under the leather soles of Floresheim.

The Flat. Three large bedrooms, each capable of containing four bodies, semi dead bodies of humans that is, not those who can move in, one on top of other in bunker style. Creaking, wet soles. Kitchen odor. Full rubbish bins. Stale hung in the hair up your nostrils. Puny enough to suck snort back to your nasal fossae. Squeaks of brass metal horseshoe nail under the heels regurgitate the soul; enough to make anyone jealous;

- Is this where you livE?

- Eugenia Plato sleeps in this one. A Greek. Here...


Bare floors cling to remaining remnants of once grandiose carpet of oriental design, a culprits wonder, image of a fake rose garden shimmers through upward thrusting pieces of wool-nylon, fake smelling, piercing, large red roses. It is impossible not to feel in a garden of soft, flaky petals. Completely under as much as your sole could claim. The garden stretched endlessly.

There is another room of similar look and feel. Only the window is broken. We glide in to the other room hand in hand. I can hear the wind whistling through the broken glass. The dirty curtain flaps in the air, slapping the air violently.

She wanted to care, she smelled of motherhood, wanted to spread her wings over her siblings, she was safe, clear, loving, encouraging, entertaining, having me all.

She grabbed last moment inside her wanted. --------- Maybe over a Serbian or a Bosnian sperm--------, life, earth, seed, generation, procreation, a one of piece of every one of men who presided over her subjugating womanhood. Whatever fancied. A man.

Doğan şahin- London- 1988