A Useless Man

Yani Usta

He must have been fifteen when I met him. He wasn’t Yani Usta yet — he was just a boy. A dark-skinned boy with dark hair, dark eyes, dark legs.

And me? Well I was a grown man. Why should I lie — I had no money, no job. I didn’t know a soul in the world. There was only my mother. I had no one else. Yani Usta’s twenty now, and I’m pushing fifty. But he’s my only real friend. The way he can splash those walls with oil paint! It’s amazing, just amazing. But to me he’s still that dark-skinned boy. He’d put his brush down, and he’d be gone. Sometimes it was a football match, sometimes a movie. Sometimes it was a coffeehouse for a game of hearts.

If I happened to flitter through his mind, he’d come and find me. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t bother.

“Why look for you, Granddad?” he’d say.

We had this quiet beer hall. A place where I would go and sit. And think, and think. What have I done for this world? What have I seen? Why am I here? Why do I have to leave at all? What have I done?

It’s warm in here, but I still feel the chill from the snow outside. It’s six o’clock and the place is still empty. The waiter has gone into the other room. The clock on that wall can make a man nervous, and drive him to drink. Should I wait for Yani Usta? He won’t come if I wait … And will he come if I don’t? There’s hope. There’s hope when I’m not waiting.

He’ll come and sit down across from me. What will I say to him? What will he say to me? I can never remember. Later I’ll make something up. He says this, he says that.

There are regulars here at the beer hall. There’s this one fellow who comes and sits by the window. He opens a bottle of soda. He pours in a double shot of rakı, and then a single shot. He orders a plate of dried fruit, a plate of grilled kidney, and maybe an omelet.

Yani Usta comes in. His forehead is in knots. The girl’s dad is giving him five thousand lira drachmas. They say she’s pretty enough. He knew her already but this time he was at their place for tea. “Why don’t you dance with her, Yani!” the girl’s mother says. “I can’t dance for the life of me,” Yani Usta said, “and even if I did, you can be sure I wouldn’t dance right now!” The woman still wanted to close the deal. “Talk to my dad,” Yani Usta said.

So it looks like Yani Usta won’t be coming here anymore to share a beer or two. “I shouldn’t be seen in these kinds of places for a while,” he says. “There’s five thousand lira riding on this.”

“Oh, Yani,” I say. “Those were the days! Just the other night you were a scrawny little dark-skinned boy. Now you’re all grown up. And I’m the granddad. The beer hall is the old beer hall. The tables the old tables. The world a different world. But you’re a different man. And I’m still the same old granddad. Yani Usta! I’ll always see you like you were way back when: a dark-haired, dark-eyed little devil. Remember how we’d go to the movies together? How you’d go wild sitting next to me — clap your hands, slap me on the back?

“Viresi,” you’d say, “did you see that? Check out that spy. See what he did? With just one punch …”

That movie theater’s gone now, too. The one with all the mirrors. On rainy days, it stank of people and clothes. There in the first-class section, surrounded by all those boys, my heart would almost burst with love; every face was beautiful; every boy was kind; every hand was small, dirty, warm, and calloused.

Days went by and things took a turn for the worse. The drink was taking its toll. You grew up, enough to take those five thousand lira drachmas. Do you at least love the girl, Yani Usta?

“She’s a woman, isn’t she, Granddad? How could I not?”

“That’s right, Yani Usta. Women should be loved, it’s only natural, I suppose, but I love children more than women because I’ve always been a child at heart.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“You? How could you ask such a thing, Yani Usta? You? I love you very much.”

“But I’m no longer a child.”

“You are to me.”

“If you still thought of me as a boy I’d never forgive you. I’d never let it go. I’d never speak to you again, ever.”

“You’ll invite me to the wedding, Yani Usta?”

“What is it with you? Of course I will.”

For a moment we are silent. Then he asks me something and I’m not sure why:

“You go to theaters and stuff like that, don’t you? Bring me along one evening.”

“Sure, whenever you want,” I say.

We agree on Monday night. I go to the sales window early and buy the tickets and leave. When I get back Yani Usta is waiting for me, all dressed up. He’s come all right but the tickets are for the following night. There are no performances on Monday.

“Yani Usta, there aren’t ever plays on Mondays. These tickets are for tomorrow night,” I say.

“Never mind, just give me my ticket,” he says.

We drink four beers each and then we go our separate ways. The next night I am at the theater at eight. He still isn’t there. The bell rings. The curtains close. Someone comes in and sits beside me.

Yani Usta isn’t coming; he’s sold his ticket.

He’s pulled one last childish trick on me. And it’s a good one. But how strange I feel, how lonely. I’m always going to the theater alone, and usually it’s fine. I like it best when I’m sitting on the upper balcony, and the theater is almost empty. Tonight’s performance is probably the worst I’ve ever seen.

So what’s up, Yani Usta? Where were you tonight? If you didn’t show, well, you didn’t show. So what? When I see you in the street, you’re still that little boy beside me in that movie theater with all the mirrors. That doesn’t mean I can’t feel something like a steel fist, wrenching my heart. But enough about that! Don’t take it so seriously. It’s nothing! Don’t get upset. Forget it, Yani Usta! Just flash me a smile when you see me. Don’t get upset — that’s the last thing I wanted. What’s a night at the theater anyway? Nothing, damn it! Not when there’s friendship in the world. That’s one thing that hasn’t died.