A strangeness in my mind : being the adventures and dreams of Mevlut Karataş, a seller of boza, and of his friends, and also a portrait of life in Istanbul between 1969 and 2012 from many different points of view

Cover image for A strangeness in my mind : being the adventures and dreams of Mevlut Karataş, a seller of boza, and of his friends, and also a portrait of life in Istanbul between 1969 and 2012 from many different points of view

Title:

Author:

Pamuk, Orhan, 1952-

ISBN:

9780307700292

Personal Author:

Pamuk, Orhan, 1952-

Uniform Title:

Kafamda bir tuhaflık. English

Edition:

First American edition.

Publication Information:

New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2015.

Physical Description:

xiii, 599 pages : illustration, genealogical table ; 24 cm

General Note:

"Originally published in Turkey as Kafamda Bir Tuhaflik by Yapi Kredi Yayinlari, Istanbul, in 2013"--title page verso.

"This translation originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Faber and Faber Ltd, London, in 2015"--title page verso.

Abstract:

"Since his boyhood in a poor village in Central Anatolia, Mevlut Karataş has fantasized about what his life would become. Not getting as far in school as he'd hoped, at the age of twelve he comes to Istanbul--"the center of the world"--and is immediately enthralled by both the old city that is disappearing and the new one that is fast being built. He follows his father's trade, selling boza (a traditional mildly alcoholic Turkish drink) on the street, and hoping to become rich, like other villagers who have settled the desolate hills outside the booming metropolis. But luck never seems to be on Mevlut's side. As he watches his relations settle down and make their fortunes, he spends three years writing love letters to a girl he saw just once at a wedding, only to elope by mistake with her sister. And though he grows to cherish his wife and the family they have, he stumbles toward middle age in a series of jobs leading nowhere. His sense of missing something leads him sometimes to the politics of his friends and intermittently to the teachings of a charismatic religious guide. But every evening, without fail, Mevlut still wanders the streets of Istanbul, selling boza and wondering at the "strangeness" of his mind, the sensation that makes him feel different from everyone else, until fortune conspires once more to let him understand at last what it is he has always yearned for."--Jacket.

Subject Term:

Street vendors -- Turkey -- Istanbul -- Fiction.

Manners and customs. (OCoLC)fst01007815

Social history. (OCoLC)fst01919811

Street vendors. (OCoLC)fst01134720

Geographic Term:

Istanbul (Turkey) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction.

Istanbul (Turkey) -- Social conditions -- Fiction.

Turkey -- Istanbul. (OCoLC)fst01204833

Genre:

Fiction.

Added Author:

Oklap, Ekin,

Document ID:

SD_ILS:2212753

Holds: Copies:

Available:*

Library	Collection	Collection	Call Number	Status
Searching... Beale Memorial Library (Kern Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction	FIC PAMUK ORH	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Coalinga District Library (Coalinga-Huron)	Searching... Unknown	Fiction Area	F PAM	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Hanford Branch Library (Kings Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	FIC PAMUK	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Lemoore Branch Library (Kings Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	FIC PAMUK	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Mariposa Branch Library (Mariposa Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	FIC PAM	Searching... Unknown
Searching... San Joaquin Branch (Fresno Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	PAMUK OR Strange	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Sunnyside Branch Library (Fresno Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	PAMUK OR Strange	Searching... Unknown
Searching... Woodward Park Library (Fresno Co.)	Searching... Unknown	Adult Fiction Area	PAMUK OR Strange	Searching... Unknown

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Summary

From the Nobel Prize winner and best-selling author of Snow and My Name Is Red : a soaring, panoramic new novel--his first since The Museum of Innocence-- telling the unforgettable tale of an Istanbul street vendor and the love of his life.

Since his boyhood in a poor village in Central Anatolia, Mevlut Karataş has fantasized about what his life would become. Not getting as far in school as he'd hoped, at the age of twelve he comes to Istanbul--"the center of the world"--and is immediately enthralled by both the old city that is disappearing and the new one that is fast being built. He follows his father's trade, selling boza (a traditional mildly alcoholic Turkish drink) on the street, and hoping to become rich, like other villagers who have settled the desolate hills outside the booming metropolis. But luck never seems to be on Mevlut's side. As he watches his relations settle down and make their fortunes, he spends three years writing love letters to a girl he saw just once at a wedding, only to elope by mistake with her sister. And though he grows to cherish his wife and the family they have, he stumbles toward middle age in a series of jobs leading nowhere. His sense of missing something leads him sometimes to the politics of his friends and intermittently to the teachings of a charismatic religious guide. But every evening, without fail, Mevlut still wanders the streets of Istanbul, selling boza and wondering at the "strangeness" in his mind, the sensation that makes him feel different from everyone else, until fortune conspires once more to let him understand at last what it is he has always yearned for.

Told from different perspectives by a host of beguiling characters, A Strangeness in My Mind is a modern epic of coming of age in a great city, a brilliant tableau of life among the newcomers who have changed the face of Istanbul over the past fifty years. Here is a mesmerizing story of human longing, sure to take its place among Pamuk's finest achievements.

Author Notes

Orhan Pamuk was born in Istanbul, Turkey on June 7, 1952. After graduating from Robert College in Istanbul, he studied architecture at the Istanbul Technical University. After three years, he decided to become a writer and graduated from the Institute of Journalism at the University of Istanbul in 1976.

In 1982, he published his first novel Cevdet Bey and His Sons, which received both the Orhan Kemal and Milliyet literary prizes. His novel, My Name Is Red, won the French Prix Du Meilleur Livre Etranger, the 2002 Italian Grinzane Cavour, and the 2003 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. He has received numerous Turkish and international literary awards for his works including the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature. His recent work includes A Strangeness in My Mind.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews (5)

Publisher's Weekly Review

This mesmerizing ninth novel from Nobel laureate Pamuk (Silent House) is a sweeping epic chronicling Istanbul's metamorphosis from 1969 to 2012, as seen through the eyes of humble rural Anatolian migrant workers who come to the increasingly teeming metropolis in search of new opportunities in love and commerce. Though relayed through different points of view, the fable-like story's chief protagonist is the ruminative Mevlut Karatas, son of a cantankerous peddler of yogurt and boza (a thick, fermented wheat drink), who carries on his father's trade despite its fading popularity. The book includes a dip into Mevlut's childhood in Central Anatolia and his move to Istanbul with his father when he is 12. He later meets the beautiful Samiha at a wedding and is tricked by his cousin into eloping with Samiha's less attractive older sister, Rayiha. Mevlut and Rayiha have a happy marriage nonetheless and raise two daughters as he tries to gain a foothold in business. Mevlut's progression from naïve, perpetually searching wanderer to a more fulfilled and wizened soul, despite his mostly unsuccessful attempts at getting a leg up financially, is laid bare. His walkabouts and skirmishes with his family are engrossing, but what really stands out is Pamuk's treatment of Istanbul's evolution into a noisy, corrupt, and modernized city. This is a thoroughly immersive journey through the arteries of Pamuk's culturally rich yet politically volatile and class- and gender-divided homeland. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Nobel laureate Pamuk's (The Museum of Innocence, 2009) profound love for his city, Istanbul, is the life force in this intricately detailed and patterned fairy-tale-like novel that follows the footsteps and life of a humble, contemplative street vendor. Mevlut leaves his village at age 12, in 1969, to join his father in Istanbul, where he ekes out a living selling yogurt door to door. As Mevlut comes into his own and finds deep meaning in the traditions of street peddling, especially his magical nighttime route selling boza, a fermented beverage he comes to believe is holy, he develops a mystical connection to the rhythms and secrets of the city, which lets you hide the strangeness in your mind inside its teeming multitudes. After catching a mere glimpse of the prettiest of three sisters (the eldest is married to his older cousin), Mevlut secretly courts her by writing poetic love letters, until, with a cousin's help, they elope. But there's a catch, a bit of treachery that infuses this many-voiced, multigenerational novel with subtle suspense. As his meditative hero walks the streets for five decades, balancing his wooden yoke on his shoulders, Pamuk, a deeply compassionate and poetic writer, illuminates dreadful and dazzling Istanbul's violent upheavals and ceaseless metamorphosis, women's struggles for freedom, and the strange vicissitudes of love. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Each new book by internationally revered Pamuk garners extensive media coverage and elevated reader interest.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2015 Booklist

New York Review of Books Review

THOUGH OTHERWISE ACCURATE, the subtitle to Orhan Pamuk's new novel - "Being the Adventures and Dreams of Mevlut Karatas, a Seller of Boza, and of His Friends, and Also a Portrait of Life in Istanbul Between 1969 and 2012 From Many Different Points of View" - makes the book's complicated ambitions appear simple, if not quaint. "Have no fear," it seems to say, "we'll merely be synthesizing over 40 years of modern history from one of the most culturally tumultuous cities in the world, while also following a large cast of characters crossing lines of class, politics, religion and gender, all of which will collect around a lowly street vendor's 'adventures and dreams.' What could be breezier?" In fact, the truth of "A Strangeness in My Mind" lies somewhere between Pamuk's playfulness and my knottier version - for this is a book that champions simplicity even as it wrestles with the complexity of an ever-changing city, and attempts to manage as plainly as possible a necessarily sprawling tale. Its hero is Mevlut, and like other Pamuk characters, he is caught between worlds. The conflict between tradition and modernity in Turkish culture is the major subject of Pamuk's career (his citation for the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature reads, "Who in the quest for the melancholic soul of his native city has discovered new symbols for the clash and interlacing of cultures"), and his protagonists do double duty as both products of, and windows onto, their historical moments. In Pamuk's gallery of Turkish Everymen - including Ka in "Snow," Kemal in "The Museum of Innocence" and Black in "My Name Is Red" - Mevlut stands out as the most sentimental, purest of heart and humblest of aspiration. If he were an archetype, he would be the wise fool. His cousin Suleyman thinks him an inexplicable simpleton; his communist friend Ferhat says "he's a bit of a weirdo, but he's got a heart of gold"; his sister-in-law calls him "cute as a little boy" - yet these and other infantilizing comments serve only to show how poorly others understand Mevlut's inner complexity. He struggles to understand himself, the "strangeness" in his mind, a cloudy anxiety that only partly clears by the book's end. In the meantime, we learn about Mevlut's two great loves, both introduced in their own short opening chapters. Chapter 1 gives us Rayiha, whom he marries in a plot straight out of a Shakespearean comedy: a cousin's wedding, youthful love at first sight, a bit of trickery by which Mevlut is led to elope, not with the woman of his dreams, but with her less attractive sister. Though realizing his mistake in time, honorable Mevlut sees the marriage through and finds a truer love than the blind passion he'd first pursued. Fortunately, Pamuk's story line doesn't stop on this moralistic high note but pushes on, evolving into a complex psychological drama as the repercussions of the initial "trick" work their way through decades of Mevlut's life, and providing a boost of plot whenever the novel needs it. His second love is wandering Istanbul at night selling a fermented-wheat beverage called boza. Boza, we learn, was "the drink of choice under the Ottomans," but lost prominence in the 1920s, when the Turkish republic was founded and wine and liquor were made legal. Mevlut already understands that the drink is anachronistic, that he is a "living relic of the past that had now fallen out of fashion," a vendor of nostalgia. Yet he is also a believer - in God, seemingly, but mostly in boza. "Just because something isn't strictly Islamic," he argues with a friend, "doesn't mean it can't be holy. Old things we've inherited from our ancestors can be holy, too." Nor is boza only religious, but political as well: When the modern rise of the religious Islamic party threatens to bring about a ban on alcohol, Mevlut's first thought is that it would make people appreciate the importance of boza and improve his failing business. For Mevlut, all of life can be arrived at through boza - and this would seem to be the essence of his wisdom. Unlike the "thousands of people" he's met on the streets of Istanbul who chase after the illusions of modernity and ineffable measures of success, and who "invariably believed that behind every drama and in every battle there was always someone else pulling the strings," Mevlut intuitively understands that the world, though too complicated to be comprehended in its totality, is nonetheless made up of simple, knowable objects and events. Whether or not this is useful wisdom, for Pamuk the vision of life as a complex web of knowable things provides a terrifically interesting way to write a book. As we leave those introductory chapters and jump back to Mevlut's childhood, and as the next 550 pages proceed in "David Copperfield" fashion - through his education, his various jobs, his military service, a long stretch of chronic masturbation and eventually his love affair and marriage and the ensuing plot - Pamuk finds opportunities everywhere to expand out from Mevlut into the web of associations that compose his reality. Most delightful are first-person monologues by the characters themselves, who interrupt the novel's primary third-person narrative to offer their own two cents. These asides are as ontologically slippery as it gets, for while the book's main narrative is in past tense, the characters speak from back in the present tense of the past-tense action, cheekily pleading, "Don't write that down either, because it's just not true" or "I can sense that you've been talking about me all the way from this table in the village coffeehouse where I am dozing in front of the television." It's very funny, while also allowing into Mevlut's tale the colorful voices and contending perspectives of the world around him. But Mevlut's Istanbul is more than just people, and Pamuk also pulls into his novel the physical history of the city. Beyond a fateful account of boza, we are given whole epics of real estate, chronicles of construction projects, a "History of Electric Consumption" and much else. In these moments, "A Strangeness in My Mind" becomes a tremendous concatenation of voices and places and politics and culture, gathered around a melancholy hero and a winding psychological plot. None of which is to say the novel is encyclopedic or exhaustive. It's not Joycean, Wallacean or Pynchonian in ambition. The lives of characters and the history of the city come to us as side views from Mevlut's story, forays that imply a larger world but never stray too far into it, or too far away from Mevlut's melancholic disposition. That disposition is so relentlessly modest, and Pamuk's rendering so unerringly genteel, that at times the book's congeniality feels heavy-handed. There's no horror in these pages, only history; no madness, only "strangeness." The satire does not bite enough to be satire, the tragedy does not bite enough to be tragedy; basically, no biting occurs. (The recurrence of Mevlut's fear that street dogs will bite him is not an exception, but a case in point.) What occurs instead are virtuosic craft, intellectual richness, emotional subtlety and a feeling of freedom that comes from a narrative that finds its most meaningful moments in the side streets of storytelling. 'Just because something isn't strictly Islamic doesn't mean it can't be holy.' MARTIN RIKER'S fiction and criticism have appeared in publications including The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian and The London Review of Books. He teaches at Washington University.

Kirkus Review

Nobel laureate Pamuk (The Museum of Innocence, 2009, etc.) sets a good-natured Everyman wandering through Istanbul's changing social and political landscape. Tricked by his scheming cousin Sleyman into writing impassioned love letters for three years to Rayiha, Mevlut finds himself eloping with the older sister of the girl whose dark eyes intoxicated him at a relative's wedding. (Sleyman gave him the wrong name because he wanted the beautiful youngest for himself.) This being Turkey in 1982, and Mevlut being easygoing in the extreme, rejecting a woman who has compromised herself by agreeing to run away with him is unthinkable. The young couple prove to be well-matched and quite happy, although Mevlut doesn't make much money. His checkered day jobs in food services, selling rice with chickpeas from his own cart and ineffectually managing a cafe among them, give the author a chance to expatiate on Istanbul's endemic corruption, both municipal and personal. Pamuk celebrates the city's vibrant traditional cultureand mourns its passingin wonderfully atmospheric passages on Mevlut's nightly adventures selling boza, a fermented wheat beverage he carries through the streets of Istanbul and delivers directly to the apartments of those who call to him from their windows. Although various characters from time to time break into the third-person narration to address the reader, this is the only postmodern flourish. If anything, Pamuk recalls the great Victorian novelists as he ranges confidently from near-documentary passages on real estate machinations and the privatization of electrical service to pensive meditations on the gap between people's public posturing and private beliefs. The oppression of women is quietly but angrily depicted as endemic; even nice-guy Mevlut assumes his right to dictate Rayiha's behavior (with ultimately disastrous consequences), while his odious right-wing cousin Korkut treats his wife like a servant. As Pamuk follows his believably flawed protagonist and a teeming cast of supporting players across five decades, Turkey's turbulent politics provide a thrumming undercurrent of unease. Rich, complex, and pulsing with urban life: one of this gifted writer's best. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Library Journal Review

Portraying Istanbul over a period of five decades, Pamuk's (Silent House) latest novel introduces listeners to Mevlut, a street vendor of boza (a mildly alcoholic Turkish drink) and yogurt. As a protagonist, Mevlut is more an observer than an active participant; the novel opens with his realization that he eloped with the wrong woman (he glimpsed a beautiful girl at his cousin's wedding and wrote her letters for years, but when he has her on the train to Istanbul he discovers that he was tricked into taking the "less attractive" sister). He doesn't abandon her, however, so perhaps this is enough to make him a hero, although his disappointment with the match seems to set the tone for much of his not-entirely-rewarding life (money is always a challenge, and his effort at opening a business is not particularly successful, among other misfortunes). The novel is told in a fragmented style, sometimes switching perspectives as often as from paragraph to paragraph, and, along with the frequent shifts in time periods, this can be difficult to follow in audio. Narrator John Lee's English accent lends the reading a feeling of British imperialism at times, and the pace is slow enough to convince listeners that half a century really has passed. VERDICT Most evocative in its portrayal of a changing Istanbul, this audiobook may have more traction in libraries where dedication to international literary fiction is strong. ["The novel's central concerns are human nature, communication, and interpersonal relationships, and this great writer explores these themes with a universal warmth, wit, and intelligence": LJ 9/15/15 starred review of the Knopf hc.]- Victoria Caplinger, NoveList, Durham, NC © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Excerpts

Mevlut and Rayiha Elopement Is a Tricky Business THIS IS the story of the life and daydreams of Mevlut Karataş, a seller of boza and yogurt. Born in 1957 on the western edge of Asia, in a poor village overlooking a hazy lake in Central Anatolia, he came to Istanbul at the age of twelve, living there, in the capital of the world, for the rest of his life. When he was twenty-five, he returned to the province of his birth, where he eloped with a village girl, a rather strange affair that determined the rest of his days: returning with her to Istanbul, he got married and had two daughters; he took a number of jobs without pause, selling his yogurt, ice cream, and rice in the street and waiting tables. But every evening, without fail, he would wander the streets of Istanbul, selling boza and dreaming strange dreams. Our hero Mevlut was tall, of strong yet delicate build, and good-looking. He had a boyish face, light brown hair, and alert, clever eyes, a combination that roused many a tender feeling among women. This boyishness, which Mevlut carried well into his forties, and its effect on women were two of his essential features, and it will be worth my reminding readers of them now and again to help to explain some aspects of the story. As for Mevlut's optimism and goodwill--which some would call naïveté--of these, there will be no need for reminding, as they will be clear to see throughout. Had my readers actually met Mevlut, as I have, they would agree with the women who found him boyishly handsome and know that I am not exaggerating for effect. In fact, let me take this opportunity to point out that there are no exaggerations anywhere in this book, which is based entirely on a true story; I will narrate some strange events that have come and gone and limit my part to ordering them in such a fashion as to allow my readers to follow and understand them more easily. So I will start in the middle, from the day in June 1982 when Mevlut eloped with a girl from the village of Gümüşdere (linked to the Beyşehir district of Konya and neighboring his own village). It was at the wedding of his uncle's eldest son, Korkut, celebrated in Mecidiyeköy, Istanbul, in 1978, that Mevlut had first caught sight of the girl who would later agree to run away with him. He could scarcely believe that this girl, then only thirteen--a child still--could possibly reciprocate his feelings. She was the little sister of his cousin Korkut's wife, and she had never even seen Istanbul before that day. Afterward, Mevlut would write her love letters for three years. The girl never replied, but Korkut's younger brother Süleyman, who delivered Mevlut's letters, gave Mevlut hope and encouraged him to persevere. Now, Süleyman was helping his cousin Mevlut again, this time to take the girl away. Driving his Ford van, Süleyman returned with Mevlut to the village of his childhood. The two cousins had hatched a plan to run away with the girl without being detected. According to the plan, Süleyman would wait in the van at a spot about an hour away from Gümüşdere. Everyone would assume the two lovebirds had gone off to Beyşehir, but Süleyman would drive them north over the mountains and drop them off at the Akşehir train station. Mevlut had gone over the plan many times in his head and twice made secret reconnaissance expeditions to crucial locations like the cold fountain, the narrow creek, the wooded hill, and the back garden of the girl's home. Half an hour before the appointed time, he stopped off at the village cemetery, which was on the way. He turned toward the tombstones and prayed to God for everything to go smoothly. He was loath to admit it, but he didn't quite trust Süleyman. What if his cousin failed to bring the van to the appointed spot near the fountain? Mevlut tried not to think about it too much; no good could come of these fears now. He was wearing the dress trousers and blue shirt he'd bought from a shop in Beyoğlu when he was back in middle school and selling yogurt with his father. His shoes were from the state-owned Sümerbank factory; he'd bought them before doing his military service. At nightfall, Mevlut approached the crumbling wall around the white house of Crooked-Necked Abdurrahman, the girl's father. The window at the back was dark. Mevlut was ten minutes early and anxious to get going. He thought of the old days when people trying to elope got entangled in blood feuds and wound up shot, or when, running away in the dead of night, they lost their way and ended up getting caught. He thought of how embarrassing it was for the boys when girls changed their minds and decided not to run away after all, and he stood up with some trepidation. He told himself that God would protect him. The dogs barked. The window lit up for a moment and then went dark again. Mevlut's heart began to race. He walked toward the house. He heard a rustling among the trees, and then the girl calling out to him in a whisper: "Mev-lut!" It was a voice full of love, the voice of someone who had read the letters he'd sent during his military service, a trusting voice. Mevlut remembered those letters now, hundreds of them, each written with genuine love and desire; he remembered how he had devoted his entire being to winning over that beautiful girl, and the scenes of happiness he'd conjured in his mind. Now, at last, he'd managed to get the girl. He couldn't see much, but in that magical night, he drew like a sleepwalker toward the sound of her voice. They found each other in the darkness. They held hands without even thinking about it and began to run. But they hadn't gone ten steps when the dogs started barking again, and, startled, Mevlut lost his bearings. He tried to find his way on instinct, but his head was a muddle. In the night, the trees were like walls of concrete looming in and out of view; they dodged them all as in a dream. When they reached the end of the footpath, Mevlut made for the hill ahead, as planned. At one point, the narrow, winding path through the rocks and up the hill was so steep that it seemed to reach all the way to the clouded pitch-black sky. They walked hand in hand for about half an hour, climbing without rest until they reached the peak. There, they could see the lights of Gümüşdere and, farther back, the village of Cennetpınar, where Mevlut had been born and raised. Mevlut had taken a circuitous path away from Gümüşdere, partly to avoid leading any pursuers back to his own village, and partly on instinct, in order to thwart any treacherous scheme of Süleyman's. The dogs kept barking as if possessed. Mevlut realized that he was, by now, a stranger to his village, that none of the dogs recognized him anymore. Presently, he heard the sound of a gunshot coming from the direction of Gümüşdere. They checked themselves and continued to walk at the same pace, but when the dogs, who'd gone quiet for a moment, started barking again, they broke into a run down the hill. The leaves and branches scraped their faces, and nettles stuck to their clothes. Mevlut couldn't see anything in the darkness and feared that they might trip and fall over a rock at any moment, but nothing of the sort happened. He was afraid of the dogs, but he knew that God was looking out for him and Rayiha and that they would have a very happy life in Istanbul. They reached the road to Akşehir, out of breath. Mevlut was sure they were on time. All that remained now was for Süleyman to turn up with the van, and then nobody could take Rayiha away from him. Mevlut had begun every letter invoking this girl's lovely face and her unforgettable eyes, inscribing her beautiful name, Rayiha, with lavish care and desperate abandon at the head of each missive. Now he was so happy at the thought of those feelings that he couldn't help but quicken his step. In that darkness, he could scarcely see the face of the girl he was eloping with. He thought he might at least take hold of her and kiss her, but Rayiha gently rebuffed his attempts with the bundle she was carrying. Mevlut liked that. He decided that it would be better not to touch the person he was to spend the rest of his life with until they were married. Hand in hand, they crossed the little bridge over the river Sarp. Rayiha's hand in his was light and delicate as a bird. A cool breeze carried the scent of thyme and bay leaves over the murmuring water. The night sky lit up with a purple hue; then came the sound of thunder. Mevlut worried about getting caught in the rain before the long train ride ahead, but he did not speed up his pace. Ten minutes later, they saw the taillights of Süleyman's van beside the gurgling fountain. Mevlut felt himself drowning in happiness. He felt bad for having doubted Süleyman. It had started raining, and they broke into a joyful run, but they were both exhausted, and the lights of the van were farther away than either of them had judged. By the time they reached the van, they were soaked through. Rayiha took her bundle and sat in the back of the van, engulfed in darkness. Mevlut and Süleyman had planned it that way, in case word got out that Rayiha had run away and the gendarmes started searching vehicles on the roads. It was also to make sure that Rayiha wouldn't recognize Süleyman. Once they were seated up front, Mevlut turned to his accomplice and said, "Süleyman, as long as I live, I will be grateful for this, for your friendship and loyalty!" He couldn't stop himself from embracing his cousin with all his strength. When Süleyman failed to reciprocate his enthusiasm, Mevlut blamed himself: he must have broken Süleyman's heart with his suspicions. "You have to swear you won't tell anyone that I helped you," said Süleyman. Mevlut swore. "She hasn't closed the back door properly," said Süleyman. Mevlut got out and walked toward the back in the darkness. As he was shutting the door on the girl, there was a flash of lightning, and for a moment, the sky, the mountains, the rocks, the trees--everything around him--lit up like a distant memory. For the first time, Mevlut got a proper look at the face of the woman he was to spend a lifetime with. He would remember the utter strangeness of that moment for the rest of his life. Once they had started moving, Süleyman took a towel out of the glove compartment and handed it to Mevlut: "Dry yourself." Mevlut sniffed at the towel to make sure it wasn't dirty and then passed it to the girl in the back of the van. A while later, Süleyman said to him "You're still wet, and there aren't any other towels." The rain peppered the roof, the windshield wipers wailed, but Mevlut knew they were crossing into a place of endless silence. The forest, dimly lit by the van's pale orange headlights, was thick with darkness. Mevlut had heard how wolves, jackals, and bears met with the spirits of the underworld after midnight; many times at night, on the streets of Istanbul, he had come face-to-face with the shadows of mythical creatures and demons. This was the darkness in which horn-tailed devils, big-footed giants, and horned Cyclopes roamed, looking for all the hopeless sinners and those who had lost their way, whom they would catch and take down to the underworld. "Cat got your tongue?" Süleyman joked. Mevlut recognized that the strange silence he was entering would stay with him for years to come. As he tried to work out how he had fallen into this trap life had set for him, he kept thinking, It's because the dogs barked and I got lost in the dark, and even though he knew his reasoning made no sense, he held fast to it, because at least it was of some comfort. "Is something the matter?" said Süleyman. "Nothing." As the van slowed down to take the turns in the narrow, muddy road, and the headlights lit up the rocks, the ghostly trees, the indistinct shadows, and all the mysterious things around them, Mevlut beheld these wonders with the look of a man who knows he will never forget them for as long as he lives. They followed the tiny road, sometimes snaking up a hill, then back down again, stealing through the darkness of a village sunk in the mud. They would be met by barking dogs every time they crossed a village, only to be plunged once again into a silence so deep that Mevlut wasn't sure whether the strangeness was in his mind or in the world. In the darkness, he saw the shadows of mythical birds. He saw words written in incomprehensible scripts, and the ruins of the demon armies that had traversed these remote lands hundreds of years ago. He saw the shadows of people who had been turned to stone for their sins. "No regrets, right?" said Süleyman. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I doubt anyone is following us. I'm sure they all knew the girl was going to run away, except maybe her crooked-necked father, and he'll be easy to deal with. You'll see, they'll all come around in a month or two, and then before the summer's over, you two can come back to get everyone's blessing. Just don't tell anyone I helped you." As they turned a sharp corner on a steep incline, the van's back tires got stuck in the mud. For a moment, Mevlut imagined that it could all be over, that Rayiha would go back to her village and he would go back to his home in Istanbul, without any further trouble. But then the van started moving again. An hour later, one or two lonely buildings and the narrow lanes of the town of Akşehir appeared in the headlights. The train station was on the outskirts, at the other side of town. "Whatever happens, don't get separated," said Süleyman as he dropped them off at Akşehir railway station. He glanced back at the girl waiting with her bundle in the darkness. "I shouldn't get out, I don't want her to recognize me. I've got a hand in this, too, now. You must make Rayiha happy, Mevlut, got it? She's your wife now; the die is cast. You should lie low for a while when you get to Istanbul." Mevlut and Rayiha watched as Süleyman drove away until they could no longer see the van's red taillights. They walked into the old train station building without holding hands. Inside the brightly lit train station, gleaming under fluorescent lights, Mevlut looked once again at the face of the girl he had run away with, a closer look this time, enough to confirm what he had glimpsed but not quite believed while shutting the back door of the van; he looked away. This was not the girl he had seen at the wedding of his uncle's elder son Korkut in Istanbul. This was her older sister. They had shown him the pretty sister at the wedding, and then given him the ugly sister instead. Mevlut realized he'd been tricked. He was ashamed and couldn't even look at the girl whose name may well not have been Rayiha. Who had played this trick on him, and how? Walking toward the ticket counter at the train station, he heard the distant echoes of his own footsteps as if they belonged to someone else. For the rest of his life, old train stations would always remind Mevlut of these moments. Excerpted from A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.