TE16 Turkish Delight

Hakan Günday In Kreuzberg he paid and painstakingly climbed off the cab. He even heard a few curses catch up to him due to his halting the cab in the busiest hours of traffic. He limped along for a while as he watched the taxi disappear into the river of vehicles. Then abruptly, as though he had been touched by a magic wand, his body straightened. A middle-aged woman had witnessed his recovery. Their eyes met. She looked away quickly as if she were swerving to avoid a head-on crash with a looming truck. They walked off in opposite directions. Who would believe her little miracle if she were to tell? Her neighbor opposite with the three dogs? They populated the streets of a city that was devoid of miracles. Every compass here pointed to the west. The west, in its turn, to rationality, murderer of miracles. Just like Koma always pointed to the north. Like the moss on the sides of tree trunks. North always. North is cold, barren, unpopulated. Like death. At those ages Koma was like a compass that always pointed to death. He lived on the moss-caked side of life. Dark descended on Berlin. Dinnertime. Condensation on the windows of restaurants. Crowded and noisy inside. Curtains of burgundy velvet with silver stripes permeated with the smell of frying oil. Waiters in bowties, waistcoats, white aprons…Koma found himself staring into the eyes of one. He wasn’t actually looking at thewaiter. Hewasmerely busypissing onto thewindow of the restaurant, but when he raised his head, he noticed that all the customers inside, as well the waiter, were staring at him. He couldhearabeardedman,whomhecould tell tobetheheadwaiter by the imitation Armani suit he was in, shout at the young waiter

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