A Useless Man

Four Plusses

You want to light up but you don’t have a match. Where will you go for a light? You need directions. Who to ask? You see a crowd gathering. You wonder what’s going on. Who will you turn to? A man like me. And while I do like being the one people are more likely to turn to when they’ve lost their way, or need a match, there are times when I don’t. But I can’t say I have never assumed an arrogant air to discourage the poor souls who walk over to me with a question, or who look at me as if they might spring one on me … but who knows, I was so very low that day. So many times I’ve had to ask myself why I’ve acted that way when I usually disliked being the one picked out of the crowd. It also annoys me when young boys ask me to light their cigarettes. They stand there, some distance away, sizing me up. And then the strange way they come up to me. There have been times when I’ve let them down. And it was on those occasions that I came to understand what a terrible thing it is, to be wrong about someone. There is not a soul on earth who can bear it. I’ve seen quite a few of them give up on the idea of asking me for a light. Some people make sure never to risk losing hope.

I myself can recall a number of times when I have faltered while trying to find the right person to ask for directions. After which I lost patience and went straight over to the man closest to me. Some didn’t show me the way even if they knew, while others were so delighted to have the chance to offer me a cigarette that they couldn’t stop smiling. How wonderful it is, not to know how to thank a man who has shown fellowship at the moment you least expected it; first you say, merci beaucoup, then, thanks so much, then, I can’t thank you enough; then you translate the French: you explain to the man that it means “thank you very much.”

But I know this, too: if a stranger asks you a question, if he’s picked you out of twenty people, he’s already made a number of calculations. These are calculations of a psychological nature.

And then, if he’s mixed in some hollow, inscrutable theories about physiognomy … This reminds me of the professor who did all that research on the science of the face. How carefully he studied his faces. And what outlandish things the poor doctor read into them. Oh, that intense gaze, that wrinkled face, those evenly aligned strands of dark hair that framed the beauty of a face. But he got them all wrong. There was nothing in that wise and intense gaze, bar stupidity, nothing in that lined face but the idiotic fancies of a young girl. Beneath that broad forehead framed by that mane of black hair, there was nothing but lost memories of an empty life.

Most of us cannot make heads or tails of psychology or face-reading; rather, we proceed as amateurs, knowing nothing about these sciences, lighting our cigarettes, inquiring after ferries, asking for directions, or whatever else we need to know. Our habits take over — we lose all sense of shame. So why is it that they’ll pick me out of a crowd of young men? Is it because yours truly is a good man? I doubt it … They don’t choose me because I’m a good person. They choose me because I seem to be just the right man to ask. Does that mean I have a compelling face? What a fine thing that would be! There must be another reason. Are we shabbily dressed? Are our boots unpolished? Did they catch a foolish glint in our eyes? Forbearance in our manner? A kink in our nose? Something slack about our cheeks? Or is the knot in our tie a touch too shiny? It has to be something. It could just be that I have something of the vagabond in me. If you saw a man jumping out of a car and dashing for the ferry — would you even think of asking him a question? If you saw a gentleman frowning as he drew deeply from his cigarette outside a restaurant he had evidently just left, would you even think of asking him for a light? If you saw a traveler dripping with elegance, would you ask him directions? Could you ever find the courage to approach a man wearing polished boots, to ask him why the crowd?

Things being as they are, I rarely get angry when people ask me for directions, or if they come to me for a light. And when I am coming to see you, my love, and someone asks for directions, I even take the time to have my boots shined.

I hate it, though, when an immaculately dressed city type asks me for a light. If you want to know why, it’s because he couldn’t find the courage to ask all those other men, and so this man … Though when you think about it, this has nothing to do with courage. He was embarrassed by all those others, but not by me. Truth is, this sort of thing annoys me. Because even if it isn’t rude, it’s a bit strange. You can’t ask just anyone. Why am I the one they choose? Here’s my answer: I like it when a villager asks for directions without thinking about it first, or making any calculations — without knowing the first thing about psychology or physiognomy. Let them come to me with their questions. They aren’t seething with secret thoughts or clever schemes. And how could these poor creatures ever dare approach that fat man oozing with pride, his every pore scrubbed clean? I’m just someone who happens to be there — a man like any other.

My love! I shouldn’t prattle on like this, when I have a story to tell. But what am I to do? Am I not to look for a man to light my cigarette with his if I have no matches? Do you expect me to give up smoking? I can’t even give up writing these damn stories. I just sit there, idling, cigarette in hand, as if looking for someone. Hemmed in by so many important, conceited, grave-faced men, I hardly know where to begin.

Listen. This just occurred to me. It’s good to be asked for a light. It’s neither good nor bad to be asked for directions, or to look like the right person to be asked. It’s strange, isn’t it? If you look around you, my love, you’ll see that — male or female — we all have our excesses. One person might be overly arrogant, and another overly jealous; for every overdressed person, there is another who is dressed in rags; for every smart aleck there is a snob. This one over here is too dirty, and that one over there is too clean. There’s no middle ground, my dearest. And neither do I wish to choose, or be chosen. It’s probably best just to vote! There’s a sin in that, too. It’s best, my friend, to carry matches and know where you’re going, and never go out without knowing which way you are going. What right do we have, my love, to prejudge every man we meet?

Time for my story. I was waiting for the ferry. No, I wasn’t actually waiting for the ferry. I was waiting to miss the ferry home. I said that wrong. I was waiting to miss the ferry so as not to go home. The very thought of going back to my silent, empty village — it was more than I could bear. Better to stay in Istanbul, drinking away the hours, and thinking of you … But sadly the ferry was still waiting at the pier. I stayed in my seat. I stayed in my seat, waiting for it to leave. At last it pulled away. And I relaxed. I lit a cigarette. I had a match.

Sitting just across from me, there was a youngish man, in his hand a piece of paper. He kept looking at it. The passenger lounge emptied, and then it filled up again. At last the man looked up from the paper in his hand. He looked around. I could see what he was after. He had no idea what it said on this piece of paper. Someone had to explain it to him.

I moved my eyes away from him. I fixed them on something else. On the eyes of a woman who wasn’t looking at me. And this was when it began to get on my nerves, knowing that of all the people in this lounge and for reasons I would never understand, I would be the one he chose. And for a moment I considered why he probably chose me — I was an important man who could understand what was written on this piece of paper. And why would I lie? As soon as this idea came to me — no, I didn’t decide I was an important person, but what if I said that the idea of being chosen suddenly appealed to me? I threw a quick glance in his direction. Though by then he’d already chosen me. And here, if you like, you can imagine that I’ve said that to win your favor …

The man came over to me. He held out the piece of paper.

“For the love of God” he said. “Could you take a look at this for me?”

I looked, but I couldn’t quite understand it. I read through it again, and then again. I felt a pain in my heart. The same pain you feel in the summer, if you’re very thirsty, and you’ve gulped down a glass of cold water too fast — a heaviness, that’s what I felt inside me. I looked up at the man.

“I’m just on my way to work,” he said. “I’ve found a very good job. If only you knew, sir, how long I’ve gone without work. But now I’ve found a job. I’m engaged, too. They examined me, and I’m in perfect health. At the very end, they did a blood test. They say they had to. How is my blood — is it as good as the rest of me?”

He was smiling, but on his forehead I could see the shadow of a doubt. I remembered the professor. And I wondered if I too had turned into a physiognomist. No. Here was someone who had, at long last, found a job. He was holding a piece of paper, and it was covered with suspicious marks … No! This was a man whose worries had found their way into his eyes and the middle of his forehead. He had been given three blood tests. And each time the result had four plusses: ++++.*

“Have you been ill at all, my friend?”

“No, not at all,” he said.

His face went taut. His eyes drained of color.

“I really don’t know much about these things. I can’t really understand it,” I said.

“There’s nothing wrong. Do you think?”

“Probably not,” I said. “I’m not a doctor. I can’t really make sense of it.”

“Should I take this paper with me?” he asked. “I mean, to the office where I’ll be working?”

I said nothing. I examined his face carefully. My gaze was not so much careful as needlessly — stupidly — pitying …

I had that pitying look from you, once … I asked you how to get somewhere: how to find happiness, to be precise. Do you remember?

What my eyes said to that man, I cannot know … Once again we examined the paper. I didn’t tell him to take it into his new job with him, but neither did I tell him not to. He wants to look, and I am looking into his eyes. The man’s gone deathly pale.

I left. I had my shoes shined. I ran home. I shaved. I put on a new tie. I assumed an arrogant air, so that no one else would dare approach me for the rest of the day. And that was the day, my love, when I took my raincoat to the cleaners.

*A blood test result with four plusses (++++) indicates syphilis