The Fugitive

Moses, as we know, led the chosen people about for forty years and set them down in the one stretch of the region possessing neither oil nor gas. The Ottomans were rather more far-sighted. We in Thrace now have gas of our own, and the rest of Türkiye envies us bitterly and pays twice over for the imported sort.

Domestic gas being a thing of such value, one is naturally not permitted simply to use it. The rank of Subscriber must be earned. One begins by proving oneself worthy, and to that end an engineer comes to look at one’s equipment.

An engineer is a man with a device. The device is the important party; the engineer is what it travels with.

He arrived, passed the device about the kitchen, and the device gave its opinion. “Kaçak,” said the engineer. “A leak,” we gathered. He sealed the valve and left. Where the leak was, the device had not specified, and the engineer had no view on the matter, being merely in attendance.

Engineers do not repair leaks. Repairmen repair leaks. Not because the engineer couldn’t—of course he could—but because then the repairman would be out of work. In Türkiye every man knows precisely where his own trade ends and guards his neighbour’s with something close to reverence. Live and let live.

The repairman arrived, settled himself at the kitchen table with one leg crossed over the other, and set about the dried apricots. My wife watched the apricots. The apricots dwindled.

Between one apricot and the next he asked where the leak was. My wife said she didn’t know; the engineer hadn’t mentioned it. He sighed and rang the gas company, for which purpose he required the address—the address of the flat in which he was at that moment proposing to finish our apricots.

My wife’s Turkish is not fluent. He noticed this, and took steps. A Turk who discovers that a foreigner cannot follow him will not slow down, simplify, or enunciate. He will raise the volume. Same speed, same porridge, but louder. “Address! Address! Contract!” He meant it kindly—he was telling her where to find the address written down. One might have thought us deaf. We are not deaf. We are merely yabancı.

He got the address in the end, got through, and spent half an hour being handed from voice to voice. Everyone was charming. Everyone wished to help.

At last they reached the engineer, who said: “I don’t know. The device indicated a leak. Where it is, is not my department.”

A detail worth noting: the gas had by this time been shut off and sealed.

The repairman took no offence. He finished eating, rose, went round the flat sniffing, tapping and applying soapy water, and found a hose to the hob that had been attached without conviction. He attached it with conviction, took his fifty euros, and departed a happy man. He had found his leak. Other people’s are no concern of his.

Tomorrow the engineer comes again with the device. If the device holds its peace, we get gas. If it speaks up, we begin again, with the same cast in the same order.

Meanwhile there is no hot water and no hot food. There is no heating either, though God be praised, at this time of year one can do without.

And nobody, you understand, is at fault. Everyone was pleasant, everyone kept strictly within his instructions, everyone genuinely wanted to help. Two days of telephoning, three specialists, perfect mutual understanding—and not one cubic millimetre of gas.

Fourth year in Türkiye. Always something new.