“This should help you locate Ms. Melkonian,” the attorney says, pulling a large manila envelope from his briefcase and handing it to Orhan.
“No one is locating anybody,” Mustafa says, lighting another cigarette. “Any lawyer in Turkey will tell you this will is garbage.”
Orhan rips the envelope open and pulls out one of Dede’s tiny black sketchbooks.
“It is part of the will. It belongs to you now,” the attorney says. “There is an address on the last page where you can find her.”
Orhan stares down at the tattered tome. The black cloth cover and white string keeping its pages tight are familiar to everyone in the family. Although he never called himself an artist, Dede was always drawing. He carried a sketchbook the way most men carry their worry beads. When he was young, Orhan would find them in every corner of the house, in his toy bin, a kitchen cupboard, or behind the chicken coop. There were entire volumes dedicated to things as mundane as Auntie Fatma’s dishes, but there were also books filled with wondrous animals, real and imagined. Once, at fourteen, Orhan had the pleasure of seeing the body of a woman, her breasts and legs and buttocks drawn in meticulous detail. He spent a great deal of time with that particular collection, until Auntie Fatma discovered it under his mattress and gave him a proper beating. One never knew what lay between the two soft black covers of these volumes. The thrill in opening one of Dede’s sketchbooks lay in this not knowing.
“Typical,” barks his father. “He plunges us into ruin and leaves a handful of drawings as consolation.”
“There is also a letter, addressed to you,” the attorney says. Turning to Mustafa, he extends a small sealed envelope to him. The letter stays suspended in the air for what seems like a long time until finally, Mustafa, his eyes never leaving the attorney’s face, snatches it from his hand.
Orhan turns the sketchbook around and around in his hands. The weight and feel of it does what the wailers and well-wishers could not. He bites his lower lip until the pain overwhelms his grief.
“I’m sorry if this confuses you,” the attorney says as he rises to leave.
“No one is confused,” Mustafa utters the last word like a curse.
Turning to Orhan, the attorney says, “Perhaps you could walk me to my car.”
Orhan jumps at the chance to leave the dark room and his father’s presence. Outside the pomegranate trees prevail against the dry wind, but their leaves are less reserved. They shimmy and sway, reflecting light and creating the kind of fleeting negative space of which Orhan often dreams. Their playful existence stands in direct contrast to the dilapidated buildings lining the streets of Karod.
Orhan walks alongside the attorney whose steps are quick despite his old age.
“I’m sorry about what happened in there. My father isn’t himself,” Orhan says.
“He’s nothing like your grandfather,” the attorney says.
Orhan realizes for the first time that this man is roughly the same age as his late grandfather.
“Were you and Dede friends, Mr. Yilmaz?”
“You could say that, yes,” says Yilmaz. “He was very proud of you. You know that?”
“God knows I tried to please him,” says Orhan. “Do you think he was in his right mind toward the end?”
“If you’re asking me if he knew what he was doing, my answer is yes. He wanted to give you control over Tarik Inc. But that doesn’t mean it’s legal, not when your father is still alive. I tried to dissuade him from this business about the house, knowing it would only exacerbate things, but he insisted.”
Orhan nods.
“Your grandfather was a good man,” the attorney says, placing a hand on Orhan’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t have a good reason. You understand?”
“Yes,” he hears himself say, though he understands nothing.
“Look, the will is highly unconventional. The part about the house can be easily contested as it goes against our inheritance laws to forgo immediate family and favor a stranger. But if one part of the will is contested, then the rest of it is suddenly open to questioning. We don’t want that.”
“No,” agrees Orhan.
“Go see her. Find out what this is all about. It’s what he wanted. But take these papers along,” he says, removing a new envelope from his briefcase. “It’s an offer for compensation in place of the house. Try to get her to sign the house back to you. It will calm your father down. Whoever she is, a dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere can’t be of much interest to her.”
“I hope you’re right,” says Orhan.
When the attorney’s car can no longer be seen, Orhan returns to the house. His father, still seated in Dede’s green chair, glares at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“He never loved me, you know.” They are the first words his father has spoken to him on this day of mourning and they come out in a low ominous whisper.