It started with my husband spotting a rat on his way to work.
“Don’t get scared, but I saw a mouse on the ground floor while leaving for work,” he texted.
“How big was it?” I texted back.
“Not so big,” he replied.
He lied.
It was big. It wasn’t a cute mouse, it was a sewer rat.
I know this because on my way back from work that day it was waiting for me at the foot of our apartment door.
The darn thing was fearless, after many tries of shooing at it and madly waving my arms, it scuttled away.
The problem was, our building in Istanbul was empty – empty as in no one else lived in any of the other apartments. We occasionally saw a woman on the second floor, but she was an infrequent visitor, we assumed she lived elsewhere. Not being able to speak the language, we had taken to assuming a lot of things.
“The rat was looking for food,” said my husband the animal whisperer. The building is empty, the rat is stuck inside, she came up to our apartment because she was looking for food he decided.
His assumptions came from the battle he had fought and lost with the rat just a few hours ago. The rat was fearless. The rat jumped and pounced at my husband. The rat did not leave via the door left open for her. The rat was not scared of the comically large stick, left behind by construction workers, that my husband had grabbed in a bid to defend himself. The rat was starving.
Our family had now taken to pounding on our apartment door from the inside, hooting and making loud sounds in an attempt to scare the rat. If viewed by an outsider, it may have seemed like a ritual one performs before leaving the house. Banging on the door, hooting and hollering, manically waving a broom outside the door as if to ward off evil spirits.
It had turned into a ritual I guess.
A few days later, I went down to throw the garbage in the evening. Our neighbour from across the street was sitting on the stoop of our building, smoking a cigarette and talking to the lady we assumed sometimes lived on the second floor. Across the street neighbour is quite elegant, like a strict school teacher, with her curly white hair and very nice set of teeth. We usually see her smoking cigarettes at her window in the daytime, to be replaced by her husband smoking cigarettes at the window in the nighttime.
“Mouse, mouse” I said to them as I walked out, garbage in hand, jerking my thumb towards the apartment building. “Fare?” asked across the street neighbour. YES, I said triumphantly suddenly remembering the word for mouse in Turkish and feeling rather proud for knowing it.
Across the street neighbour pointed to sometimes lives on second floor neighbour and rattled something in Turkish. With my basic Turkish skills I understood the words Zeynep (assumed to be the name of second floor neighbour), apartment, do you know and open door.
Yes, yes I nodded in agreement, leave building door open for rat to escape I said in English, making an ‘open door’ gesture with my hands.
Hmm, hmm the ladies said, squinting in concentration at my English. Zeynep, house, door open, said across the street neighbour to me again in Turkish. I could only understand what I understood before. She hadn’t really changed her words for my benefit.
Across the street neighbour was really speaking for Zeynep I thought, who looked a little terrified. She must really be scared of rats. Zeynep was younger, had large black eyes, frizzy hair and was usually wearing pajamas when I would see her.
Yes, yes we must not open the doors to our apartments I said, nodding my head vigorously in agreement. The rat should not come into our homes I said, holding my hand out with my finger pointed straight I wagged it in a ‘no, no’ gesture.
Yes, said frightened Zeynep. She spoke quickly in Turkish, once again with my zero vocabulary I understood that Zeynep was going to lock her door at night.
Not that a rat can unlock a door, I thought to myself, but I hmm-ed at her.
Zeynep while still speaking, pointed at her neck, then used her hand to make a swooping gesture towards her throat.
That I understood immediately. Yes, we must kill the rat I said gravely, hoping my humanist husband could not hear me from our open balcony door above.
Across the street neighbour said one word in Turkish and nodded. She said it again. It sounded like a loud hiss sound to me. Yes, I repeated the word after her, assuming she was saying kill in Turkish.
But who will do it? “kim?” I said, hands out in a why gesture.
“Bir adam” said Zeynep wide-eyed. I understood that. A man will kill the rat I thought.
When I went back upstairs I told my husband the neighbours had said to leave the building door open and our own doors closed. I proudly explained to him the conversation I had in Turkish and how much my Turkish was improving. My husband trusted me of course, as his Turkish was considerably weaker than mine, at least I could converse with the neighbours. We went to sleep thinking the sometimes second floor neighbour would deal with the rat.
“Don’t get scared, but I saw a cat this morning in the building while leaving for work,” texted my husband the next day.
“WTH,” I texted back. “What colour was it?” I asked – a great one for irrelevant questions, but I like to imagine things and therefore need more details.
“Grey,” he replied.
We had left the door open and a street cat had gotten trapped inside we deduced. But now we were concerned the cat would starve. But the cat would not emerge from the basement of our empty, resident-less building no matter how hard we tried.
“The cat is pregnant,” said my animal whisperer husband, the only explanation as to why it chose the basement of an abandoned building as home.
“At least we don’t have to worry about the rat,” I said.
Later in the evening I once again went down to throw the garbage and once again our neighbours were sitting on the stoop smoking.
“Now there is a cat too,” I said. “Kedi, Kedi” I said in Turkish.
Hawww said the ladies, a cat!
“Çok problem!” Big problem I said in Turkish, hands up in the air in exasperation.
Across the street neighbour looked at me, with her stern school teacher eyes, not such a problem she said in Turkish.
She once again began to speak in her quick Turkish, my blank look in reply exasperated her and she said “Hırsız!”
“Hırsız ne?” I finally asked what is hırsız? It was the same word she had been repeating last time, which I had assumed meant kill earlier.
The elegant across the street neighbour suddenly went into mime mode, throwing both arms over her shoulders as though she was carrying a sack, across the street neighbour proceeded to tiptoe like she was walking on a tightrope with her imaginary bag. It was a wonderful performance because I immediately understood what she meant.
“THIEF?! BURGLAR?!” I exclaimed. Hands shooting up to my face in shock. “Not a rat?”
With a definitive nod, across the street neighbour poked her finger into my arm, “Türkçe oğren.” This I understood. Learn Turkish she said.
Poor wide-eyed, pajama wearing Zeynep had been robbed a few nights ago, a thief had jumped into her balcony, wrenched open the door and stolen her gold necklace. Zeynep was staying at her mother’s place at night and learned of the robbery the next day. That may explain why Zeynep is always in pajamas. At least we solved the mystery of sometimes second floor neighbour’s absence I thought.
As I went back up that evening, I told my husband, I think we might have bigger problems than the rat.
