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tenant who had brought a lawsuit against his landlord. Then he got a wrong number. In the time before İskender called, he got two other wrong numbers. Then he reached someone who knew he was “related to Jelal Bey” and asked for Jelal’s phone number. After the calls from a father who wanted to save his son who was in jail for political reasons and an ironmonger who wanted to know why the judge had to be bribed before the verdict, İskender called because he, too, wanted to reach Jelal.
    İskender hadn’t spoken to Galip since they were classmates in high school, and he quickly ran through all that had happened in the intervening fifteen years, congratulating him on his marriage to Rüya, maintaining like many others that he too had known “that’s what would happen in the end.” Now he was the producer for an advertising agency. He wanted to put Jelal in touch with people from the BBC who were doing a program on Turkey. “They want to do a live interview with a columnist like Jelal who, for thirty years, has been involved with what goes on in Turkey.” He explained in unnecessary detail how the TV crew had already talked to politicians, businessmen, and labor organizers, but insisted on seeing Jelal whom they found most interesting. “Not to worry,” Galip said, “I’ll get him for you in no time.” He was pleased to have found a reason for calling Jelal. “I think the people at the newspaper have been putting me off for the last couple of days,” said İskender; “that’s why I resorted to calling you. For the last two days Jelal hasn’t been at the paper. Something must be going on.” It was a known fact that Jelal would sometimes disappear for several days into one of his hideouts in Istanbul, the locations and phone numbers of which he kept from everyone, but Galip had no doubt that he’d get hold of him. “Not to worry,” he said again. “I’ll get him for you in no time.”
    He was unable to get him. All day, every time he called the apartment or the Milliyet newspaper offices, he fantasized changing his voice and talking to Jelal under someone else’s guise. (He had planned to say, using the same voice from the radio plays, as on those evenings when Rüya, Jelal, and Galip sat around, imitating readers and admirers: “Of course, I’m on to you, brother!”) But each time he called the paper, the same secretary gave him the same answer, “Jelal Bey isn’t in yet.” As he grappled with the phone all day, Galip had the pleasure of hearing his voice fool someone just once.
    Late in the afternoon he called Aunt Halé thinking she would know Jelal’s whereabouts, and she invited him to dinner. “Galip and Rüya are coming too,” she said, again mistaking Galip’s voice for Jelal’s. “What’s the difference?” Aunt Halé said when she realized her mistake. “You are all my negligent kids, the lot of you are the same. I was about to call you too.” After chewing him out for his failure to keep in touch, using the same tone of voice as when she scolded her cat Coals for scratching the furniture, she told him to stop at Aladdin’s store on his way to dinner and pick up some food for Vasıf’s goldfish: the fish wouldn’t eat anything but food imported from Europe, and Aladdin would sell the stuff only to steady customers.
    “Did you read his column today?” Galip asked.
    “Whose, Aladdin’s?” his aunt said with her habitual obduracy. “Nah! We buy Milliyet so that your uncle can do the crosswords and Vasıf might cut out articles to amuse himself. Not to read Jelal’s column and rue the condition to which our nephew has sunk.”
    “In that case you might call and invite Rüya yourself,” Galip said. “I really don’t have the time.”
    “Don’t you forget now!” Aunt Halé said, reminding him of his errand and the time set for dinner. Then she went through the permanent guest list for the family get-together, which was as unvaried as the dinner menu, naming each like