Anastasia Milko - A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick

blue expanse were the only hope for Can that his elder brother would be guided and protected in that dark and disturbed night. He had no grunge for the word Kerem had called him, he was not even sure about the meaning, yet it must have been something beyond what father could have tolerated, and there was little he couldn’t when it came to his precious son. Believe it or not but this seven year old boy didn’t lose neither love nor peace in his little brave heart this night. Realization that it was not his brother talking but a dangerous spirit of alcohol came immediately to Can, and he felt sorry for his brother who must have been captured in its hands.

Chapter 2

It will never be the same boy or a Bulgarian artist in a straw boater

A tall artist from Şişli happened to meet Can a few days before his brother Kerem would leave the house and disappear as disappears an early morning fog with the first rays of waking Sun, under a very peculiar circumstances. Can was strolling around alone, kicking a little stone, a little mad with his so called friends who wouldn’t play with him anymore. If it hadn’t been for a strong kick of the stone that made the latter strike a skinny beard man with a canvas on his knee, Can’s life would have never changed so drastically. For worse or for better but it did.

“Jesus my Lord!” cried the artist out with pain, leaning to rub his pulsing knee.

Can was about to approach the man to apologize before the curses would break free and to plea this tree-of-a-man not to report parents on him. One second later, when standing just in front of the artist, the boy finally managed to digest the exclamation heard by the stranger. Being under genuine surprise, he forgot the reason he initially came to the man and with a false irritation asked:

“What did you say, Mister?”

The man seemed to notice the boy for the first time. He smiled broadly, gaining back his posture, and examining closely a gloomed grimace of skinny, yet strong kid with a wooden stick in his left hand.

“I said,” narrowing eyes appeared to be the color of the Bosporus. “Why not to be a bit more careful, friend, right?”

The man was grinning like a Cheshire cat, thought there was nothing scary or fishy in his sincere broad and quite appealing smile, though his teeth were uneven and might have been judged as too long for the mouth of their owner.

“No Mister,” Can was not satisfied with this lame attempt to change the torrent of the conversation.

“No?” laughed the artist, shaking his head in utter disbelief of the boy’s insolence, yet absolutely in love with it.

“I mean yes” the boy rolled his eyes “but I was trying to tell that you didn’t answer my question, Mister!”

“I did not? I think so, young boy, you are right!” The artist steered away from Can and took one of the brushes lying on the palette, planning to concentrate on his work once again.

Can had already heard once that people of art are the most peculiar characters, who never seem to act according to the rules of common sense. However, it became a matter of great interest to involve the man in a conversation, hoping it would help him to kill some time before returning home for lunch. Mother promised to bake potato Borek, a mere thought of which made Can fly over the moon with craving for its perfectly crunchy pastry, a perfect Turkish salty cake he adored to be served with sweet Yougurt or Ayran.

“What are you painting?” Can looked behind the canvas, pushing the amazed artist away, “why did you called Jesus to be your Lord?” asked the boy with no anger, not even taking his eyes off the landscape on the greyish surface of the canvas. The artist stepped away to let the boy get the whole view of the painting, feeling upcoming wave of affection to a brave witty kid. He used to be exactly like this, he reflected on some flashes from his own poor but happy childhood back in Bulgarian village. He was a real pain in the neck for all his family, full of beans, always ready to contradict and pursue his own truth, seeking the sense, feeling deep and powerful longing for answers no one seemed to be able to satisfy. The torture he suffered at a young age before the truth itself found him, was very possible prospect for this naturally open-minded and curious boy.

“What do you see on the canvas?”

“Well, some buildings from the street, and there are white walls of the old abandoned Greek church from the hill, standing out from the rest of the huts on your painting. Oh, and there is a fig tree next to the bench, where a real cat is sleeping, but you forgot to put the cat there, instead you lied and put the non-existent tree.”

Can sighed gloomily and turned his chin toward the artist.

“You are a liar, Mister, aren’t you?”

“All men are liars, I suppose, kid. Though, I will not call myself a regular liar.”

The sun was still shining bright, playing with sparkles on a sweaty face of the man. “I mean, boy, there is no possibility for a person to be always honest even with himself, let alone with other people. However, I pray to have enough courage and be honest at least about my own life. You seem to be puzzled with my answer, I can totally understand”. The artist didn’t give an impression of having a heavy burden on his shoulders, he spoke calmly and sincerely. Then paused for a split second and went on.

“Considering the non-existent tree, I would say that it is not a lie but a rebirth of a real tree that used to be growing here many years ago. And when it comes to the cat, well if you think it’s an important element of the scene I would definitely put it there too.” He cut the last sentence shortly with no hint of going further into the explanations, in fact the artist decided to check the boy’s intentions and see whether he would try to fish out the answer he had tried to get for two times already.

Can, overwhelmed with this metaphorical explanation, stand in silence, not knowing how to pick something else from the artist’s speech to underestimate or contradict but couldn’t find anything. And he also felt a blurred affection that spooked away the fear of a stranger in a child.

“I see, he raised the head and spent a long time staring at the man’s calm face. “Well, you lied about God, what is your justification for this Mister?”

“What an inquisitive boy you are!” the artist exclaimed, throwing his dirty with colors hands high. “Here I must confess to lying”

The boy straightened up, ready to carry the palm of victory.

“I should have told ‘our Lord Jesus’ and not ‘my’, I wasn’t very attentive to my words when faced the pain of your stone, yet I never lied, boy. And now, if you let me, I would like to go back to work while the light is good.”

Chapter 3

A seed of knowledge. May 22

It was early in the morning, Can’s bed was put along the sunny side of the room and he got used to waking up with the first rays touching his long and curvy lashes. The family had only one alarm used by mother to set time when she was busy baking, father woke up at the same time every single day to be fully prepared for Fajr. Morning Prayer became an essential part of his life. It was somehow easier to imagine Mr. Yussuf forget to drink a cup of morning coffee or even brush his teeth than neglect one of the five prayers during the day.

Can was up even earlier this particular morning, still a little confused by the quarrel he overheard late at night. The boy stretched in bed mumbling a simple prayer for his brother. It was not a custom for Can to pray at all, he had never fully understood who this God was and why he never heard his father when it came to Kerem. He paid the honor to God, attended the mosque when needed with the family, but never felt anything toward the mighty creature --">