The Cellular Engineer

It’s nighttime. I’m alone. Alone, I went to Dream Street. I’m walking there. There isn’t a soul around. A dog is barking in a distant garden. I shiver.

Actually, I’ve been alone since you left. You aren’t here. There’s no one here. Sometimes, I think to look around, to notice someone around me, but my insides fill with pain. It seems I haven’t yet forgotten the memories, the you-filled sights that I’m accustomed to . . . that I love. I try to endure the days, mindless, living with this strange pain. If only I could be angry, mad. If only I could begin to be mad at you. If I could only hate you a little. But I can’t be mad at you, I’m filled with love. It’s as though you’ve died . . .

Odd, isn’t it?

It’s as though you’ve died . . .

I can’t comprehend this sudden end in any other way.

My head is full of these confused thoughts. I’m walking along Dream Street. I want to be happy again.

I want to be happy!

It’s hard to endure this pain each night . . .

I saw someone approaching from a distance.

When he neared me, he stopped. I thought he was going to ask for a cigarette. I felt for the pack in my pocket. He was quietly, carefully watching me.

And I was examining him. He was a unique, well-dressed man. Not one to lurk about in the dark of night.

“Were you looking for someone?”

He asked in a friendly manner, and I replied.

“Yes . . . I’m senselessly searching for someone I’ve lost. For days, for weeks I’ve searched for him. But for some reason, I can’t seem to accept that he’s gone. I’m living a terrible pain. Actually, I’m not even certain as to what happened. There must be some dark, strange element at work. . . . He’s not one to just up and leave. Or else it seemed that way to me. As you can see, I’m hopeless and devastated,” I said.

He was listening to me intently.

“So he’s left . . .”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the reason?”

“Not completely, no.”

“You love him. You’re in pain.”

“Yes, geatly.”

“Can we bring him back?”

“I don’t know,” I said hopelessly. “I haven’t been sure of anything for some time. He might have thought of me and returned. He would know I was in pain. He didn’t come. He didn’t call. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Strange,” he said. “Strange indeed . . .”

He thought for a while.

“I may be able to help you,” he said.

“How?” I asked. “How?”

He pulled a card out from his jacket pocket and gave it to me.

I took the card and read it by the dim streetlight:

NIZAM ONEY
CELLULAR ENGINEER
Neomicrobiology Expert

I was confused.

“You’re a Cellular Engineer?”

“Yes, ” he answered.

“Like the ones in Siberia, who conduct secret experiments; the ones who were successful in replicating a mammoth from a few living liver cells found in a fossil?”

“Yes,” he said. “Namely, I am a neomicrobiology expert.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He understood this from my expression.

“Do you have anything with you that belongs to him? A strand of hair . . . a fingernail, an eyelash even,” he said.

I considered this, searching my pockets, searching for something of the like. Nothing.

“At home, there might be a few strands of hair on my brush,” I said. “And there was a strand of hair on a bar of soap. I saw it. Come, I can give those to you.”

We got into a cab and arrived home. I invited him into the living room then went to the bathroom to collect the brush. I extracted one dark strand of hair and gave it to him.

”Is there a room where I can work alone for a couple of hours?” he asked.

“Please, you may work in there, in my bedroom,” I said.

He went into my bedroom and closed the door.

I turned on all the lights in the living room. I turned the television on, setting the volume low, watching the screen and simultaneously flipping through the magazines in the basket.

I watched the clock on the wall.

Half an hour later, the neomicrobiology expert opened the door slightly.

“I’m sorry . . . but I’m going to need a few more strands,” he said.

“All right,” I said. I went to the bathroom and found three more strands in the brush and brought them to him.

He again closed the door.

I returned to the television. What was the expert doing in there, I was going crazy with curiosity.

Damn it!

I’m going crazy. Whereas three and a half years ago, when you’d been after me, I hadn’t even given you a passing thought.

Well, I wonder what he’s doing in there.

All at once, I heard a very faint cry from behind the shut door. It was a person’s voice.

I got goose bumps.

Then everything was silent again.

The mechanical tick-tock of the clock on the wall echoed inside my head.

I was restless.

A while later the neomicrobiology expert cracked the door.

“I need something for him to wear. Does he have pants or a shirt here?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said. “I think he took everything when he left. But there should be a pair of his pajamas here.”

I found the pajamas and gave them to the expert.

Again, he closed the door.

I could hear hushed voices talking from inside. I couldn’t make out much of it.

Then,

“All right. Do you understand what I’ve told you?” asked the expert.

“Yes. I understand,” said a voice.

The door opened.

The expert appeared.

“The work is complete,” he said, watching me. “He’s sitting inside. But first I must speak with you. I need to explain some things.”

He came into the living room and sat on the couch across from me. I turned the television off.

“He’s inside,” he said. “Just as you last saw him. His mannerisms, behavior physical appearance, speech, hair, face, eyes, everything is as it was.”

“All right,” I said. “His soul, his memories? Are those also as they were? I mean, does he remember the events we lived together? The things that keep us together, the things we lived together, our memories and hopes . . . are they as they were?” I asked.

“No, no,” said the expert. “How could they be? He has no memories, he has no recollections of the past, he has no past. He begins living the moment he steps out of that room . . . I created him from a strand of hair. But his soul, his mind, his thoughts are separate, and don’t yet exist.”

“All right,” I said. “What about his mind, his intellect?”

“He’d be considered uneducated,” he said. “What was his training?”

“He was a doctor, a specialist . . . Oh . . . well,” I wondered. “Anyhow, perhaps it’s better this way.”

I suddenly remembered.

“Does he know of the world, then? I mean, does he have any connection to life outside?”

“There’s a brand new person in there. Right now, he’s already begun to learn of the world, of life. Untouched, new. He’s open to everything. His mind is broad. You will gradually teach him. All right?” said the expert.

I nodded.

The expert opened the door.

Wearing your blue pajamas, you appeared.

What an amazing thing it was!

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was you. This is you.

You looked at me with interest.

Gently, you shook my hand.

I understood that you didn’t recognize me.

But, regardless, an indescribable peace and comfort filled me.

I hadn’t lost you.

Here you were. Skin and genes, the way you were.

I pulled up a chair and sat across from you.

“I knew your other,” I said. “I mean, your twin. He was someone I cared about greatly. I lived a significant part of my life with him. He’s no longer here. But you’re here now. Will you help me?”

(It suddenly seemed very odd to be speaking so formally with him. In any case.)

“Yes, I will,” he said.

I held his hand and thanked him.

“First, let me run over to the Giimushoghlu Passage and get you some things to wear,” I said.

I knew this Passage. You and I had gone there many times. It kept late hours.

The neomicrobiology expert Nizami Bey said, “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll be on my way now.”

I saw him to the door.

“I don’t know how to thank you, I said. “You’ve made a miracle happen. I’m still stunned. I need to get used to the idea.”

He said, “My telephone number is on my card. You may call me if you need to.” He stepped into the elevator and left.

And he, he’d remained there in his pajamas, observing the walls of the house, the books, the pictures.

“Your name is Ali,” I said.

“My name is Ali,” he repeated.

“All right, Ali,” why don’t you sit here and look through these photo albums and I’ll be right back.”

I ran out of the house and got into a taxi.

The Giimiishoghlu Passage had not yet closed. I went to the lower level. I bought underwear, shoes, socks, pants, a pair of sweatpants, a shirt, sweater and coat. I asked them to wrap everything up. It was a huge package. I hugged the package and went home.

When I entered the apartment, Ali was looking through the albums. He was excited.

“What beautiful places you’ve been to. You’ve taken so many pictures,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “We travelled everywhere, together. Once, we even travelled to sixteen places during a single twenty-day holiday. It was wonderful! Why don’t you go put these on.”

He took the package and went into the bedroom. Ten minutes later, he’d emerged from the room, dressed.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Yes. A little,” he said.

“Come, let’s go to Mother’s Shish Kebab House,” I said.

We left the house and went to the Shish Kebab House. Given the late hour, it wasn’t too crowded.

We sat at a table near the street. I ordered an Iskender for each of us. Ali was taking in his surroundings.

“We used to occasionally eat dinner here,” I said to him. “The last time we were sitting here was the time he told me about the hospital in the district he’d just been appointed to, about his office and his patients.”

“Was he a doctor?” Ali asked.

“Yes. He was a doctor,” I said. “He’d struggled for years. His fearless heart, his joy was beautiful. He was a person filled with happiness. He’d grown accustomed to his endless love of it like someone adjusting to a bright light. He then relaxed. He began to earn some money.”

Ali thought for a moment.

“If only I could speak as he did. If I could speak to you as he did so you wouldn’t get bored,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I’m not bored. I’m feeling many other emotions.”

“I miss Izmir. I have so many memories with him of Izmir. . . . He was from Soke. He’d gone to school in Izmir. He’d shown me parts of Izmir I’d never known before . . . or perhaps I’d just seen the things he’d shown me in a new way.”

After eating our meal and paying the bill, we hailed a taxi. Got in. Got off at the bus depot.

I was letting my emotions guide my actions. I felt as though I’d rediscovered a lost feeling of freedom. As this sweet new Ali walked beside me, as he observed with interest the town in the twilight, the terminal, everything . . . I felt curious.

We bought two tickets for the 12:30 bus to Izmir and found our seats on the bus. Ali sat by the window and looked outside.

I felt a sudden tightness inside.

Something was quivering in my chest. My bra felt as though it was about to burst. I pressed my hand to my chest. You were there! Under my hand. Inside my bra. . . . You’d come! The real you!

Without making it obvious to Ali, I opened two of the buttons of my jacket.

From the opening, your dark eyes looked at me with anger and jealousy.

“Who is this?” you whispered angrily.

I looked at my watch. There was still seven minutes before the bus departed.

‘I’ll be right back. I’m going to buy a soda,” I said to Ali.

I got off the bus. I went into the public restroom nearby.

You jumped into my hand. You were furious. You were nearly screaming!

“Who is that? Who is that with you? Where did he come from?”

“I’ll tell you later. We’re going to Izmir now,” I said.

“Ugh, I’m sick of Izmir,” you said, half joking.

I put you inside my bra and returned to my seat on the bus.

Neither of you let me get any sleep. Ali was asking questions about the roads we were travelling, and you were furiously fuming inside my jacket.

I arrived in Izmir totally flustered as to what to do. We went straight to the Ankara Palace Hotel.

The clerk at the reception desk recognized me.

“We would like two rooms next to each other,” I said.

He gave us two rooms side by side on the first floor.

I settled Ali into the first room.

“Why don’t you rest a little in here. You didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m going to sleep for an hour or so as well. I’ll take a shower, then we’ll tour Izmir together,” I said.

I moved to my room. Pulled the curtains shut. You’d leapt out of my bra and were pacing up and down in front of the mirror on the dresser.

“Why did you feel it necessary to parade him in front of people? He doesn’t know anything. He isn’t me. You’re fooling yourself!” you were yelling.

“What could I do? I was desperate,” I said. “I didn’t have any other choice. I was in pain.” I was slowly getting undressed.

You were watching me in the mirror.

I took you from in front of the mirror and placed you on my shoulder. I lay down on the bed. Slowly, you walked along my naked body. You seemed to be thinking about something.

Then you moved up to the pillow. With your tiny hands, you gently wiped my tears away. I pulled the sheet up over me and drifted off.

I had many strange dreams. We were walking, sinking and resurfacing upon the white ocean of clouds above Bird Island. You held a bottle of champagne. I understood that we were going to celebrate the New Year atop the clouds.

I’d sunk knee deep into a lightly steaming, cottony cloud. I was a little fearful that I’d fall through. In the distance, I saw a meal laid out on a long table. It was a buffet. . . . The hodja from Ufuktepe, the Madam Medium, Ayten, Ferhunde, Huseyin from Aydin, the two elderly women in that house, Arif and Nejip had all gathered around.

An elderly angel flapping its arthritic wings placed a New Year’s cake in the center of the table.

You’d gently parted a corner of the cloud.

“Look down there, the Bird Island Health Clinic. . . . Do you remember, I mentioned it to you. I’d read one of your stories there, years before I’d met you,” you said.

I’d leaned down to look through the hole you’d made. The sea was crystal clear. (At times like this, life is amazing, do you know that?)

“Look, the boarding house we stayed in together! Right there!” I yelled.

The elderly angel approached us.

“Leaning down is forbidden!”

I suddenly awoke. And when I turned my head, I saw that you’d laid out completely in the bed beside me. You’d grown. You were your normal, regular size.

I was confused, what should I do now?

You dressed and left the room. In the room next door, Ali had gotten ready too. When he saw you, he was confused. You looked at one another. I left the hotel, between the two of you.

You on my right.

And you again on my left.

We dove into the delightful confusion of Izmir, into Kemeralti.

“You were gone, you became one, and then two. I should be happy,” I said.

“Even if one of you were to up and leave, the other wouldn’t leave me . . .”

“We are both going to stay with you!” you said with one voice.

We walked for a while along the streets of Izmir, the three of us.

Eventually, I entered a telephone booth and dialed the telephone number of the Neomicrobiology expert Nizami Oney.

“Nizami Bey, I need your help, I’m in Izmir. At this moment, they’re both with me . . . I’ll explain when you get here . . . I beg of you, please get on the first bus and come. I’ll be waiting at the Ankara Palace Hotel,” I said.

“All right,” he said.

Late that night, when the three of us returned to the hotel, the cellular engineer Nizami Oney had arrived and was waiting for me in the lobby.

When he saw both Alis with me, he was confused.

“Nizami Bey,” I said. “Here take these two strands from my head!” I plucked the strands and gave them to him. “My room number is 14. On the first floor. Here’s the key. You know what needs to be done.”

He took the hairs and shaking his head, went up the stairs.

We sat in the lobby.

Forty minutes later, Nizami Bey returned. With him was a twin of mine. She was wearing clothes from my room. She’d tastefully applied a little make-up and some of my perfume. I noticed that she’d styled her hair differently.

Like a brand new notebook, clean, empty, a person ready to experience life, happiness, everything!

For a moment, I envied her.

I turned to Ali.

“From now on, you’ll be together,” I said. “Be happy. You have all of Izmir before you . . . Life is happening out there . . . Everything is yours. You’re two people . . . A brand new relationship . . . You have no hurt feelings, no disappointments . . . There’s no past between you or pain . . . Everything is beautiful!

“Here, you might need some money. Take the camera too. Maybe you’ll go for a carriage ride . . . and here, take this purse with you,” I said.

Agreeably, she took the bag. They were two beautiful people.

And they weren’t even aware of this!

For a moment. I wanted to tell them about the thousands of dangers around them, about the traps that could spoil their happiness.

Then I changed my mind.

I realized that some things were inevitable.

Ali and Nazli held hands. Together, they walked out of the weathered doors of the old hotel and were lost in the nighttime crowds of the city.

I looked after them with love and with all sorts of confused emotions.

Would they be able to capture what we’d captured and lost?

“Please let them be happy,” I said.

“Everything is theirs. Let them know how to use it all. They could be so happy. Just like us.”

Hmm, or was I a little envious of them?

The neomicrobiology expert Nizami Oney had also reserved a room for himself at the hotel.

“I’m going to go to bed and get some rest,” he said.

He took his keys and slowly climbed the stairs. He disappeared into the darkness of the first floor.

We were alone.

We looked at each other.

You were smiling at me.

I leaned to your ear:

“You aren’t here. You aren’t here my love. You’ve left. I know. But still I’ve managed to be with you,” I said.

Gently, you nodded.

I left the hotel.

I was alone.

I walked idly towards the post office, towards the square where the statue was.

I felt as though I saw the elderly angel of my dream in a dolmush cab that passed by.

The angel was leaning back, wings folded in, going home I suppose . . .

But I could be wrong.

I am a shadow walking alone beneath the streetlamps in the night.