That’s what Cengiz used to say. At the time, I would have been sweeping the floors.
“Before, he had 3 or 4 friends around here. One by one, they all left. When he was left alone, he went mad,” Selin said.
Selin had been working here for ten years. I say “here” because this place used to be “Kapı” back then as well. That’s why there are two mysterious, hinge-less doors hanging on the wall. Who knows where they lead.
“Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı didn’t come; why didn’t he come? We’re hungry, though. Don’t get mixed up with anyone… A coat is two hundred and fifty now. How are things going to work out?”
Later, I found out that Cengiz used to run a cigarette stand in the 2000s. A cigarette stand that sold smuggled goods.
“There used to be filterless Camel. It used to sell like hotcakes. There was also a kid who ran a stand next to me. A university student. He sold CDs. Porn CDs. He’d buy blank CDs for ten kuruş, write local and foreign content on them, and sell them for five lira. He became a doctor later and left.”
In his time, Cengiz had sold everything he could on the street. Cigarettes, socks, clothes—whatever was available. He had a little daughter. He would do any job to provide for her, as long as he didn’t get involved with the municipal authorities or the police.
“Don’t get mixed up with anyone!” he would say.
Cengiz.
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