The streets of little Turkey (1)

Roberto spat the watermelon pits he held in his mouth at his mother, sitting on the chair next to the door. He jump up and back for a few inches and boldly awaited his mother yelling at him. Little Azize stood silently in the dooropening, holding the curtain hanging in front of it, and watching his older brother with a certain sense of admiration. Little Azize was no sweetheart either, but he was perhaps still too young or maybe just too respectful to spit as his mother. Their mother started cursing at them while she threw her flat hand up in the air: ‘May god have mercy upon me, you little devil!’ She touched her temples with her fingertips and lamentated. Roberto took another bite from the slice of watermelon he held in his hands. Azize now dared to show a little smile, when his brother turned his attentive eye to him.

After their dad had come home, Roberto took Azize to play at the playground at Boddinstrasse. Although Roberto was a little brad in front of his mother, he still feared the load voice of his father, and more even the flat force of his hand.

Their father, Berk, shook the hand of Amazu, his upstairs neighbor from the third floor. Amazu was a friendly fellow, but Berk had thoughts of his own about him nevertheless, but what do you want, he was an African after all. He greeted Amazu with a flighty ‘peace,’ and Amazu gave a big smile in return. Berk watched him enter the gate to their court, the door slamming with a slow bang. He looked at the three men standing in front of Cafe Roman. He couldn’t remember seeing them there before, he wondered where they were from. They looked like Kreuzberg perhaps, maybe they had come with a friend.

Nuray mumbled softly: “Jihan wants to go and study to become a teacher, Selim said.”
“Ah, she is a smart girl! If God is willing, she will.”
“She always was good at school, always reading.”
“A sweet girl, Jihan!” Berk said.

In the distance, Berk looked and saw Robert and Hassan play in the gutter at the corner of Boddinstrasse.
“Those little rats! What are they up to, they are no good!”
“Be forgiving, Berk, they are little children and don’t mean bad.”
“They’re little rats!”
“They’re innocent souls, children of God.”
Berk stood up from his chair and impatient stepped forward and back again in front of his chair. He walked a step toward Nuray, standing in front of her. She was too kind, Berk thought, but he could never get it over his heart to reproach her, she was even too kind to get angry at her over anything without feeling contempt for himself.
“Argh, what are they up to?”
Nuray smiled at her husband, he was a good father, guided her children and always looked out for them.
“RobééRto!” Berk clamoured.
A neighbor hang over the balcony merging with the motionless red facade that lighted up in the afternoon sun.

“fi-ew! fi-et!” A young Turk at the corner wistled loudly on his fingers at his friend. Roberto briefly lifted his head up to look at his father yelling.
“Dad’s calling, Roberto!” Hassan’s thin voice said with a small hesitation, but Roberto ignored him. Berk turned to Nuray.
“They never listen!” Berk sat kindhearted and sat back on his chair again.
“What a nice day.”
“Finally, we waited for it.”
“… and were rewarded.”

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