Many and Many a Year Ago by Selcuk Altun

into side streets where buildings with even two floors stood out like high-rise eyesores. I didn’t see a single cigarette butt on the ground; nor could I find a single blind alley with wild dogs and walls disfigured by graffiti. As I roamed about accompanied by a soft breeze, I heard a melody from a distant accordion and stopped to listen.
    I headed back out to the main street where I saw a green hearse looking quite at home among the John Deere tractors and farm machinery. I noticed that the shopkeepers had all gone home for lunch. Looking for a coffeehouse where I could pick up some information, I realized that if Haluk Batumlu had been in secondary school at the end of World War II he would be in his seventies by now—assuming he was still alive. I reckoned that Hasan Gezgin, the man in the letter, would be about the same age. And no doubt every old man in town would have his regular table at the Friendship Tea House that stood before me. I approached a bearded old man dozing in the sun outside the door. I must have greeted him rather abruptly because he leapt up and began quickly straightening his clothes. I introduced myself. He gestured to the chair next to him and ordered me a tea. When he heard that I was looking for Hasan Gezgin he closed his eyes to aid his thinking, then spoke as if he were reciting a quiet prayer.
    â€œI moved from Mesudiye to Mahmudiye thirty-four years ago, sir, and I’ve never heard of a Hasan Gezgin. But before you ask that bunch of old liars in the teahouse, let’s call someone here with the same surname—Talat Gezgin. He may be a relative …”
    He stood and took a cellphone from his pocket, then went over to a bald man and spoke to him in a foreign language. I expected to be assailed with curious looks from the small knots of students ambling past the teahouse, but I was surprised at their politeness. Watching this quiet parade of children, I felt like I was on the set of a Fellini movie. The man returned looking satisfied with his homework.
    â€œI spoke with Talat, Lieutenant; Hasan Gezgin is his cousin. He’s had an accident at work and is staying home. The teahouse boy will take you there.”
    Talat Gezgin met me at the door. He had a dramatic patch over his right eye and appeared to be in his sixties. It seemed to me that he wore his beige jockey pants to emphasize his bowed legs. The living room smelled like detergent and was so clean and tidy that I felt bad about keeping my shoes on. His wife offered me tea and pastries. Her face beamed kindly as if she were trying to atone for past misdeeds. I sipped the aromatic tea and thrilled to the horses surrounding us in photographs and mementos. Talat, on disability retirement after thirty years at the Anatolian Agriculture Association’s stables, was in a dejected mood, not merely because of losing his right eye but because of being kicked by a puny colt. The old groom leapt out of his chair when he heard that I was looking for Hasan Gezgin in order to find Batumlu, a man unaware of his inheritance in America.
    â€œIs it always the world’s way to shower gifts on charlatans?” he thundered. “That Istanbul commie first caused Hasan to be thrown out of university, then came here and took advantage of him as if nothing had happened. By the time he left Mahmudiye he had turned the lives of two families upside-down …”
    â€œSir, please, calm down,” I began, not knowing how I was going to finish, and went on with something like, “If we can join forces to find this rogue, Batumlu, maybe it will help heal old wounds.”
    I paused hopefully.
    â€œJust a second,” said Talat, and left the room. When he came back minutes later he looked more relaxed. Flourishing the old cellphone in his hand, he went on. “You can meet with Hasan tomorrow morning at nine at his shop in Eskişehir. Patience Stone Carvers is in the old
caravanserai
next to the Sefa