A Useless Man

His Uncle’s Coat

Born in 1921, Mehmet Dalgır was a big, blundering man whose forelock only half concealed a narrow forehead. His mouth hung open. His shirt was ripped open, and his skin was dark, almost purple. His eyes were vacant, drained of everything but dread.

“Can’t you see, Mr. Judge? I’m trembling like a leaf.”

His face went into spasms as his left arm twitched.

“You see, my head’s not in the right place …”

“Where’s your head?”

“On my shoulders.”

“And your mind?”

“It’s just not there. I lost it. I even spent some time in the loony bin. But if I get off, I’m sure to get a job. I’m a carpenter, you see. And I know all the tricks. Why would I lie? I know them all. Forgive me and I won’t do it again. I’ll go straight to a carpenter and … I’ll take whatever he’s willing to pay me for the week. Just to make ends meet.”

“It seems like your mind’s all there, Mehmet.”

“It comes and goes, sir.”

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“I do, sir. There was that time I took my uncle’s coat. That’s why all this happened. I stole those clothes so I could pay him back. Oh, that coat! That’s what got me into all this trouble in the first place. That coat’s the one to blame.”

“Were you given a sentence?”

“I was. A month in jail, but I haven’t done the time yet, honored sir.”

Now his trousers were trembling. So, too, was his shirt, whose reverse side was as purple as a bruise, and the ripped rubber around his feet.

In that moment of silence, I looked at Mehmet Dalgır’s profile: his mouth was ajar, and on his chin was a straggle of black stubble: half a face and half a mind. A frightened child: half calculating and half pleading.

“My mind’s not all there.”

“Well then, just tell me what happened.”

“Around eight I went into a garden in Vefa. I went up one, two, three steps, then I slipped through a half-open door of the house. The clothes were there on a shelf. I took everything, and I hid them in the Şehzade Mosque.”

“What did you take?”

“A coat, a silk shirt, a little pillow, two felt hats, a cap, a pair of shoes, and two woolen undershirts, which I put on right away. They took them from me though, at the police station. They took everything I had. But I haven’t said what happened the day before that. What happened was, an eskici passed by. Give me your old clothes! Give me your old clothes! That’s what he kept saying, but when I did, they pounced on us, took us both off to the station. And they kept me in for three days. The other bastard got away, but not with the clothes. They returned them to their rightful owners, even the woolen undershirt. It’s not on me now. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Why did you spend three days in the station? Maybe you didn’t tell them the truth?”

“I did. I mean … I told them everything I’m telling you now.”

Mehmet looked at the judge in disbelief as he tapped out everything they had said on a typewriter. A little later I even saw him nodding approvingly. He was beaming like a happy child, thrilled by the idea of a judge committing his words to paper. His left arm was still twitching. His thick, fat lower lip kept moving, as if he were reading something and mouthing the words.

“I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t do it again. I only did it to buy my uncle’s coat. That’s what I told myself, you see. I said, ‘I can get his coat back if I sell these things, and then I’ll get out of jail.’ My uncle was hopping mad. He wouldn’t even let me in the house …”

The judge tapped it all down. “I did the job to pay for my uncle’s coat.”

Mehmet Dalgır:

“Yeah, that’s it. If I did the job, well, that’s why I did it. For my uncle’s coat … And if I get off I’ll go straight out and find a carpenter …”

Mehmet didn’t get off. Given the nature of the crime and the absence of proof, the court’s official decision was that Mehmet Dalgır would be detained in a police station cell until a date was set for determining his sentence.

When he was outside, Mehmet Dalgır asked the police officer next to him:

“What happened?”

“You’re going to jail until the court comes to a decision.”

“Do they have any positions there?”

“Sure.”

“Do they teach carpentry?”

“Of course,” the officer said.

His left arm was twitching, his lower lip, too.