THE RETIRED BANK CLERK
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the man. Nothing at all. As a clerk of the local bank branch he did nothing in his life other than his work and the simple, boring, routine daily trips to and from the workplace. With the retirement he stopped doing those, too, and the dullness of his life had thus become even more dense. He did not have a family that he was in contact with, was never married, and had hardly been outside his neighborhood for any length of time. Despite the fact that he was a born-and-bred Istanbulite, he had not been even once to the famous and immensely popular Princes’ Islands which are only a stone’s throw from the City. He would of course know of the Islands and would even occasionally hum some of the songs written about their natural beauty and active social life. Yet he never did venture the boat trip even during his annual leaves.
If you were to dig further in search of more details of his private life, you would probably discover that the clerk may have had occasional ‘’discreet affections’’ for some members of the gender other than his own but, expectedly, those would be no more than remotely monitored, deeply platonic affairs. It would seem that the subjects of his attention, not too many to begin with, did not even notice his existence, nor did they know anything about his heart’s flutterings when they pass by him. The end result of these one-sided feelings, which were never-disclosed, was that he did remain a bachelor all his life. Oddly enough, though, this was something he was utterly content with. He would not -and dared not- have had it any other way.
For long years his life had been distilled to a ‘’work-home-work’’ chain with no urge to do anything out of that path. If at this point you were to say ‘’small wonder that he had never visited the Islands’’, you would be correct. The man was mediocrity personified.
It was the night of one of those increasingly more idle, more meaningless, more wasted days of his retired life. The man had not bothered to get out of his flanel pajamas all day long and, finally, gone back to bed even earlier than his usual time. Later, in the wee hours, he had a dream of the so-called ‘’lovers’ cove’’of the largest of the Princes’ Islands. The well-known promontory by the side of the cove, popularly referred to as the ‘’Lingua’’, Dil, which he knew from newspaper clippings or occasional postcards, came alive in his dream, transformed itself into a colossal ‘’tongue’’ like its name suggested and, acting like a real one, started hurling verbal threats at the man: ‘’You must not, I repeat, MUST NOT visit the Islands in Your remaining days. If You do You would be struck dead within hours of setting foot on the Island’s soil! So, BEWARE!!’’. He woke up sweating all over because of the sheer horror and shock of what was an out of the ordinary, absurd nightmare. However, it did not take him long to dismiss the threat as only a dream which, after all what it was -and a silly one at that. With that thought he forced himself to smile.
Not able to go back to sleep, he climbed out of the bed and decided to confront the Lingua’s senseless challenge solely to reassure himself that dreams are not to be taken seriously at this time and age. He would be going to the Islands, starting with the major one, on the first ferry he could catch later in the day. Threats and dreams be damned. Period.
With that standfast decision, perhaps the first he made in his life, he moved towards the kitchen and prepared breakfast but did not feel like eating. He put the food back in the fridge and started shaving. When he finished, he tidied up his bedroom, packed his pajamas in a small duffle bag along with a few other necessities and, for the first time in his life, dressed up for an excursion.
Not having the timetable of the Island ferry service at hand, he left the house with the duffle bag in hand and walked down to the wharf to find out. When he read on the digital board that next scheduled ferry was in an hour’s time, he moved to the corner bakery and bought a couple of local bagels called simit and a few triangles of some creamy cheese wrapped in foil. He then returned to the wharf and sat on a bench to watch the noisy seagulls while he ate. He shared one of the bagels with three or four more-brazen-and-greedy-than-hungry birds which kept fighting over what he gave them. ‘’Fools!’’ he mumbled. ‘’If you line up, there will be enough for all of you but nooo! You want all of it for your own selfish effing selves, or try to get it before everyone else, just like some of us humans...It figures why sometimes we call each other bird-brained!’’
When he saw the ticket booth opened ahead of the departure time he got up, paid the fare and walked to the ferry through the squeaky turnstile. Only when he settled in a seat he started having a strange, awkward, annoying feeling of anxiety on this first-ever journey which was triggered by a weird dream.
The ferry was slower than he anticipated or he was perhaps too eager and impatient to get done with the journey. As the vessel reached the Island he gave a sigh of relief and said, almost aloud, ‘’finally!’’. He shuffled with the crowd through the small arrivals hall and, when he came out, saw the line of horse-drawn carriages waiting along the kerb. ‘’In postcards they are shown with shinier colors and the horses look better-fed ’’, he observed.
He signaled one and got in, placing the duffle bag on the faux leather seat opposite. As the driver was about to reach for the whip the retiree said, before he was asked, ‘’Hotel Safransky, please’’. The driver sounded baffled. ‘’Hotel Safransky?” he asked. “ Never heard of it. Is that the correct name, Sir?’’ ‘’I think so, but then again I am not sure. Never mind. I have read somewhere that there is an old mansion here called the Triandafilidis House. Do you know where that is?’’ ‘’Yes Sir, here we call it the Yanaros House or the Izzet Pasha Mansion. It is not too far from here but it burned down many years ago. It is in ruins you know.’’ ‘’Oh. I see. Maybe the hotel I mentioned has also been demolished or something, who knows? In that case, you’d best take me to a decent hotel, then. I’ll look around the island tomorrow.’’ ‘’Sure enough, Sir. There is a small hotel near the remains of the house you mentioned. But it has a different name. Not Safransky.’’ ‘’What’s the name of this other hotel?’’ the retiree wanted to know. ‘’Earlier in the summer its neon sign read Amalfi. A very Italian sounding name, but there was also a For Sale banner outside. I don’t know if it is still called that. Shall we try it Sir?’’ ‘’Yes please’’ the retiree said. There seemed to be hardly any other choice anyway. ‘’But please don’t use that whip on your horses. I don’t think they can take it, skinny as they are and, frankly, I can’t bear seeing them being flogged..’’ ‘’No, no, of course not, Sir. I crack the whip only to make a sound which my horses understand. These are like my children, I won’t hurt them, ever, but business being what it is, we all are suffering Sir. It isn’t only the horses that are underfed but also the whole family. There is talk of switching to electric carts but what shall we do without the horses if that happens and, what is more, what will happen to them? I dread to think...’’ ‘’You are right. Life is hard for all of us but it is what it is and what shall be shall be, I always say. Let’s hope for the best..’’ With that the conversation came to an end.
Although it was a warm afternoon, what with more than a few yellowing leaves falling here and there, a touch of an earlier-than-usual autumn was also in the air. The school year was about to start and some of the summer vacationers have already begun packing up to move back to the City. Luckily, the hotel was open and there were vacancies. The retiree took his bag, paid the carriage driver, and walked to the modest reception desk. Two minutes later he was in the room. It was clean but only a bit stuffy. He opened the window to let in the nice sea breeze which instantly filled the room with fresh air. He took his jacket off, pulled the wicker chair closer to the window and sat down to enjoy the view of thick pine trees, red tile roofs here and there, and the blue sea in the distance. ‘’Now, this is more like the postcards...’’ he said to himself, smiling. He was pleased to have made the journey.
Having woken up earlier than his usual time in the morning and with the additional excitement of the journey, the clerk was slightly tired. He leaned back to relax in his seat, enjoying the scenery. Before too long, however, he dozed off.
The sun was much lower when he opened his eyes later. It was getting cooler and the wicker chair was not as comfortable as he thought it would be. He got up to shut the window. All of a sudden he felt as if he was driven -or, rather, forced- to come to the Island against his free will. It could be the unfamiliar room, the view, the air, or anything else that was different than his own ways... He just did not feel like his usual self. It was almost like he was somehow alienated, detached and, separated not only from his routine but also from his own body, like having an out-of-body experience of watching himself from a distance. He went into the bathroom to wash his face, water would freshen him, he thought. As he leaned into the basin he glanced at the mirror. There was somebody else’s image on the glass. It was somebody vaguely familiar but not himself, certainly not himself, definitely not himself! Was it some photo stuck on the mirror? It must be! To see better, he switched on the light before he extended his hand to pick what he thought was a photo. Then he saw the man in the mirror also doing the same! ‘’It sure is some kind of joke’’ he said to himself, but it wasn’t. The face he was looking at was also looking back at him and it was clearly not him! Couldn’t be a photo, no way. He was looking at himself in the mirror and seeing somebody else! It was gradually beginning to occur to him that, impossible as it is, and just as weird, he might have become somebody else?! He braved another, closer look at the mirror. Yes, it was somebody he knew from somewhere, somehow, but who? How was it that the strange face in the mirror was at the same time somebody familiar? Who was it? Who? Then it came to him! This was the face of Ukranian-born Lev Bronstein whom he knew from history books way back...
It was a relief to clear that scary uncertainty. He switched off the light and walked back to the wicker chair. He did not fully comprehend how it could have happened but he was not the aging retired local bank clerk any longer. He was Lev Davidovich Bronstein who had lived in exile on this very Island years and years ago, under the alias Leon Sedov which was his son’s name. Bronstein was a famous man. The world knew him as Leon Trotsky, one of the prominent leaders of the Soviet Revolution, very close to Lenin. The re-structured Red Army was Trotsky’s brainchild and his major accomplishment. He was aiming to establish a world-wide socialist regime. However, after Lenin’s demise, he crossed swords with the incoming Party Secretary, Stalin, whose real name in his native Georgia was Ioseb Jugashvili. Stalin was then rapidly proving himself to be a ruthless and cruel leader. He ordered that Trotsky ‘’must be gotten rid of’’. Trotsky was exiled first to Siberia and, later, to Istanbul with assurances given to the Turkish authorities by the Soviet Administration for his safety and security. In Istanbul he stayed at the Russian Consulate for a short while in 1929. Turkish Government later offered him the then relatively more isolated Princes’ Islands and the safer seclusion of Sivastopoulos-Triandafilidis Mansion, also known as the Yanaros House or Izzet Pasha Residence. Guards were assigned to protect him. Trotsky himself presented no difficulties anyway.
During the nearly five years he lived on the biggest of the islands he regularly went angling for mullets or mackerels with a local fisherman and devoted the rest of his time to writing. His long essay titled Permanent Revolution was the end product. When his earlier asylum request was finally granted by the French Government in 1933 he left for France but was not allowed to settle in Paris. After a difficult year in France, disillusioned Trotsky headed for Norway where he was not given adequate protection either. Finally, renowned and well-respected Mexican mural painter Diego Rivera managed to convince the Mexican officials to offer asylum to Trotsky and invited him to his expansive villa in Mexico City. Trotsky stayed with Rivera and his artist wife Frida Kahlo until 1940. The villa was heavily protected with high surrounding walls. There were also guards.
On Wednesday, August 21, a friend of Rivera’s, Ramon Mercader, who had security clearance, came to the villa for a visit. When the guards said Trotsky was working in the study, Mercader went in. Unbeknownst to the guards, he had with him a mountaineer’s pickaxe concealed under his raincoat when he entered the villa. (Raincoat in August? How was that overlooked by the guards?) Trotsky was at the desk with his back to the door. Nobody knew that Mercader was a secret agent working for Stalin. He sneaked up on Trotsky from behind and smashed his skull with the sharp steel tool. The intellectual architect of the Soviet Revolution instantly collapsed on the desk, lifeless, dead.
He was sixty years old.
Finding himself as the reincarnated Lev Bronstein, a.k.a. Leon Sedov, a.k.a. Leon Trotsky was not too much of a surprise for the retired bank clerk. He easily accepted it as the expected conclusion, the finale of the dream he had the night before. Although he was not too religious a person, he nevertheless had a natural tendency to assume that everything happens as per a great scheme which is predetermined and preordained by some higher, unfathomable authority. ‘’It is what it is and what shall be shall be’’, as he pontificated earlier in the carriage. Therefore, for him the dream, too, was a chapter of a divine decree and, if he was destined to become someone else, he was ready and willing to live with that, as it were.
Comforted by this submission, he picked up several sheets of the hotel’s stationery, sat on the wicker chair, took out his fountain pen and started writing. His hand writing was Trotsky’s. So were the eyeglasses and the goatee he was wearing. It was an entirely ‘’natural’’ turn of events for he was Leon Trotsky now.
As he almost finished writing on the fourth page he felt a sharp, sudden, excrutiating pain at the back of his head. It was as if his skull was hit and crushed with a pickaxe.
The retired bank clerk collapsed in the wicker chair, lifeless, dead.
He was sixty years old. The date was August 21. He should not have abandoned his mediocre ways.
Üstünkök 1/24/’23, Bristol, RI
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