Dear Oktay,
Why do I come here? Holed up in this freezing broom-closet of a reading room, with John Anal sniffling at his desk beneath the window. Flying into a sneezing fit every half hour or so, with me having to stifle my Bless Yous because John Anal is likely to take offence. I contemplated giving him a packet of tissues. Thanks to no change and an expectant beggar-aunty outside the dentist’s last Thursday when I had my upper-right wisdom tooth gouged out, I had more packets of tissue than I knew what to do with. Then I thought better of it. Again, John Anal would definitely take offence.
John is anal because the second time we met he got into such a fluster fit trying to gather his things, spread out across two desks –his and the one behind him. When I tried to tell him, in English, there was no need, I’d take the desk behind the one behind him, he said nothing. Just went ahead tidying like he didn’t understand my meaning. So when it happened that I had to speak to him again, I was momentarily at a loss for words with his impatient ‘yes?’ look pinned on my person after the initial ‘excuse me.’ So “Errr,” says I “do you speak English?” “Yes” says he, like his race invented the English language, and with such a stink-eye and so many daggers in that stink-eye. “Do you know where the staff go at this time? There’s no one at the front desk.” I needed a copy. But did his answer, in that most British of British accents matter at all? The man looked like he despised the essence from whence my mould was made. So it was decided. There’d be no goodmornings for John Anal, no bless yous, no packets of tissue. He could sneeze out his nasal cavity for all I cared.
To answer my own question, on this dark day for a writer with disorganised research coming out of her ears and little self-worth: I come here, to the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara (BIAA) to read about the British Mandate years in Istanbul and pour over giant books on the architecture of Ottoman houses. I also come here to write to you about the novel I’m meant to be writing, because every day that passes with me having spent hours staring at a blank screen, is another brick in the ever-rising wall of failure that casts its looming shadow over my inhibited scribblings, arms crossed, booming: ‘No pressure. No pressure at all.’ So I write. To you. Something. Anything to get the words out. And when I pause to stretch I cast my gaze on the back of John Anal’s skinny neck and stifle my sympathy. Doubtless the man’s a spy. What else would a Brit be doing here, in brain-dead Ankara of all places, in this political climate? He receives post at the library, don’t you know. A package came for him the other day, and “John” says the librarian. “Efendim?” says John, and the rest of the exchange takes place in fluent Turkish.
Definitely a spy. Ordinary Brits after all are so bad at second languages. I know this because I still bear the trauma of Begginer’s Japanese from my University years, when I was still bright-eyed and stupid. For four terms, an entire classroom of nerdy Japanophiles couldn’t articulate one Watashiwa Sumisu desu. Dochira desu ka? without sounding like retards. It’s a matter of palate you see. White people are unaccustomed to engaging the back the mouth. But John Anal! Oh he spoke to that Aras Kargo delivery guy with enough mouth capacity to articulate the crudest Japanese insults in a gruff, jaw-full of ultra-masculine Yakuza-speak. Albeit, he’s a little soft of voice. Still timid among the Turks maybe. I don’t blame him.
Why do I come here? Holed up in this freezing broom-closet of a reading room, with John Anal sniffling at his desk beneath the window. Flying into a sneezing fit every half hour or so, with me having to stifle my Bless Yous because John Anal is likely to take offence. I contemplated giving him a packet of tissues. Thanks to no change and an expectant beggar-aunty outside the dentist’s last Thursday when I had my upper-right wisdom tooth gouged out, I had more packets of tissue than I knew what to do with. Then I thought better of it. Again, John Anal would definitely take offence.
John is anal because the second time we met he got into such a fluster fit trying to gather his things, spread out across two desks –his and the one behind him. When I tried to tell him, in English, there was no need, I’d take the desk behind the one behind him, he said nothing. Just went ahead tidying like he didn’t understand my meaning. So when it happened that I had to speak to him again, I was momentarily at a loss for words with his impatient ‘yes?’ look pinned on my person after the initial ‘excuse me.’ So “Errr,” says I “do you speak English?” “Yes” says he, like his race invented the English language, and with such a stink-eye and so many daggers in that stink-eye. “Do you know where the staff go at this time? There’s no one at the front desk.” I needed a copy. But did his answer, in that most British of British accents matter at all? The man looked like he despised the essence from whence my mould was made. So it was decided. There’d be no goodmornings for John Anal, no bless yous, no packets of tissue. He could sneeze out his nasal cavity for all I cared.
To answer my own question, on this dark day for a writer with disorganised research coming out of her ears and little self-worth: I come here, to the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara (BIAA) to read about the British Mandate years in Istanbul and pour over giant books on the architecture of Ottoman houses. I also come here to write to you about the novel I’m meant to be writing, because every day that passes with me having spent hours staring at a blank screen, is another brick in the ever-rising wall of failure that casts its looming shadow over my inhibited scribblings, arms crossed, booming: ‘No pressure. No pressure at all.’ So I write. To you. Something. Anything to get the words out. And when I pause to stretch I cast my gaze on the back of John Anal’s skinny neck and stifle my sympathy. Doubtless the man’s a spy. What else would a Brit be doing here, in brain-dead Ankara of all places, in this political climate? He receives post at the library, don’t you know. A package came for him the other day, and “John” says the librarian. “Efendim?” says John, and the rest of the exchange takes place in fluent Turkish.
Definitely a spy. Ordinary Brits after all are so bad at second languages. I know this because I still bear the trauma of Begginer’s Japanese from my University years, when I was still bright-eyed and stupid. For four terms, an entire classroom of nerdy Japanophiles couldn’t articulate one Watashiwa Sumisu desu. Dochira desu ka? without sounding like retards. It’s a matter of palate you see. White people are unaccustomed to engaging the back the mouth. But John Anal! Oh he spoke to that Aras Kargo delivery guy with enough mouth capacity to articulate the crudest Japanese insults in a gruff, jaw-full of ultra-masculine Yakuza-speak. Albeit, he’s a little soft of voice. Still timid among the Turks maybe. I don’t blame him.
No comments:
Post a Comment