15 Minutes Past Sagittarius

Sultan’s Döner
Balabar put his finger to my forehead, thumb raised in likeness of a cocked gun, and demanded, “How would it be if I shot you right now.” I’ve never seen such deadly, focused fury in a man’s eyes. And I was in a foreign land, still learning the ways of the people around me.
Friday evening began as did many in a Turkish restaurant in Nuremberg. The staff and the regulars were friends, or so I’d felt. Guli reached to clear my coffee spoon from the counter, and looked startled when I snatched it away. She couldn’t ask why, nor I explain, because the lovely young woman didn’t speak a word of German and certainly not English, nor I a syllable of her native Kurdish. She gave me a quizzical look, then returned to the booty of dinnerware she’d successfully collected in the sink behind the counter.
Guli (pronounced ‘Goo-Lie) has an unfortunate sound to English ears, but I’m told it means ‘Rose Moon.’ Working in her uncle’s café while visiting from Turkey, she obviously delights in shopping in Western stores, as she is always dressed in a manner befitting her name and not the duties of a dish maid. Cautiously I pushed the spoon across the counter toward her till a reflected sparkle caught her eye. She didn’t raise her head, but her nose twitched. When her quarry was hopelessly within range the kitten pounced, and my silver mouse was doomed to the dishpan.
Casim came in to begin his shift – a man who loves the ladies. Eight to eighty, it was all the same to him – he would hold them in conversation till they finally saw how precious they were in his eyes, and only then release them to go on their way smiling. I couldn’t wait to tell him, in the hearing of as many who could understand my German, about the lady I’d met way across town. I had a table outside a coffee shop, and because it was so crowded a Turkish woman of about our age asked whether she could take the seat opposite. Conversation eventually drifted to telling her about my café, and I showed her pictures of my friends there. When she dealt through the deck to Casim’s photo her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “I know him.” From this day forward I will never miss the chance to call to Casim, Ich kenne ihn!
In greater numbers than usual the evening crowd drifted in, filling the tables with Kurdish men anxious to discuss politics. There was plenty to talk about because in just the past few days my country had invaded Iraq on the claim that it gave safe haven to terrorists. This café was my own haven in Nuremberg. I was always subliminally aware of being a foreigner – an Ausländer – in Germany, as were the Kurds. And nobody understands what that means as do they, made foreigners even in their own homeland in regions of Turkey, Syria, and Iraq. Having exile in common with me, the Kurdish community had adopted me. But the café council was conducted in their own tongue, and my German was too slow and awkward to thrust into the day’s urgent matters.
I didn’t care. I was preoccupied with Guli, wondering whether she would toy with her mercilessly cleaned prey by returning the spoon to me for the chance to reenact her triumph. ‘Rose Moon’ – the guys probably told the truth on this one, since it fits her so well. Still, I remember their teaching me sounds to parrot to Akan before he came in one day. Not that I would ever indulge in such a prank myself, but I knew not to repeat their message until the counter was between me and Akan. Fortunately he turned on his laughing comrades rather than me.
The debate behind me sometimes swelled enough to intrude on my game with Guli. Who needs language when a man’s eyes can tell a lady how lovely she is, and hers how she enjoys discovering she’s an international delight? I was only dimly aware that Balabar had become very drunk. Were my attention not diverted, I would have realized how out of character that was for him. Though he was young – about thirty – he normally had such dignity that even the elderly men listened when he spoke.
But Balabar finally commanded my attention, coming to the counter and demanding whether I thought war was a good thing. Frankly, I was happier thinking of Guli than of the current events. Still, the Kurds were our allies in the conflict, fighting shoulder to shoulder with us against the regime which had committed atrocities in their villages. I answered, “Maybe not good, but I think this one is necessary.”
I would have returned to the more pleasant diversion, but Balabar shouted something to the council in Kurdish, and gestured as if he had identified the Devil himself. He placed his finger to my forehead and demanded, “Good! How would it be if I shot you dead right now – would that be good?”
His comrades circled us – there were so many that it made the café seem dark – but they gathered him back to their table and were able to quiet him. Guli looked indecisive whether to stay at her post for my comfort or retreat to the kitchen. Mixed German and Kurdish words from Balabar’s table – no chance that I could understand the charges leveled against me. Had I lost my name and become the unwilling representative of America in this alien court? But if I left now I could never return to this little café.
In time his comrades’ balms failed Balabar, and he returned to demand the same answer from me. Again the fleshly gun to my forehead, again the mortal question. But this time several of his sturdier comrades moved my trial to recess by escorting Balabar out the door and away into the darkened streets.
On Monday I returned to the café. Not eagerly, but I recalled that the week after the World Trade Center was destroyed my parents (in their seventies) ended their debate about whether to visit me in Germany, and grimly bought tickets for the overseas holiday. I could at least venture down the street.
Casim was the only one there in the late afternoon. I asked him whether Balabar was dangerous, and received a delayed shrug which said Casim only knew that he damn well could be. He left me alone to drink my coffee quietly.
And as if paged, Balabar came in. He took a seat at the far end of the counter and talked quietly with Casim for a long while. Just when it became obvious I was the subject of their conversation Casim returned to me. He said, “Balabar wants to admit treating you unfairly, and wants to know if he can buy you a raki.”
Raki is a Turkish liquor, much too strong for my taste, but this was not a drink to be turned down. Casim set the glass before me, and when I accepted it Balabar came to take the stool beside me. He said no more than to repeat that he had treated me unfairly the other night. When I offered my glass in solute he touched his to mine.
We each made a long, minute study of the counter before us. Finally I tested, “Have you lost someone to the war?”
“My sister. ” His answer did not come easily. “She was killed in a bombing on Friday.”
The knowledge and the raki burned in my throat. I let the minutes eliminate the question of which side had dropped the bomb. Instead I asked, “What is her name?”
“Nesrin.”
The liquor was going to my forehead. I returned to my examination of the counter, allowing the dignity of privacy for his wet eyes. Guli came out from the kitchen. Had she been carrying anything it would have been dropped when she saw the two of us drinking together.
Though neither Balabar nor I was fluent in our intermediate language of German, I managed, “What is she like?”
“She leaves children behind.” He seemed to be replaying a film in his mind, but finally told me what he saw, “She was always finding something to laugh about.”
How could I share his pain without the insult of stealing it? All I found to say was, “I will remember Nesrin.” I have no picture to offer in honoring this promise, but this is how I remember her cousin, Rose Moon:

The names in this history have been changed to honor my friends in their own language, remembering that only recently Turkey repealed the law that had made it illegal to give a child a Kurdish name. It is, however, impossible to substitute any other for Guli’s name.

Robert C. Flanders