Trouble at the Core of Madness

Chicago, September 2009, 2:27 am. Tiny scientists are exploring the depths of my brain. The expedition is going well, the drill gears need attention only twice so far, and the Engineer doesn't encounter any problems when he steps outside the ship to fix them. At 2:32 am, they hit a packet near the hippocampus. There is a sudden flash when the drill touches a smooth gray patch. They all gasp. In the crammed cockpit of the brainship the crew look at each other with terror. Nothing happens. The Brainavigator breaks the silence: "Phew, that was a close one." And with a terrible bang, Istanbul explodes all over the place, wiping out everything. The wall over my bed is splattered with pieces of my brain and passenger ships from Bosphorus. A small Taksim Park spins on my desk for five minutes, before coming to a halt and slowly spreading. Haydarpaşa train station is leasurely dripping from the ceiling fan.

The detective who walks into this messy scene the next day mumbles a curse. My room smells like the fried fish sandwiches they sell at Eminönü. Officers are taking photographs and collecting pieces of seagulls for evidence. The detective sighs. He misses Liverpool. "Clean it up," he says. "There is no case to solve here."

They clean everything, but miss a spot deep within my closet. The tenant after me swears that she hears crowds of people and shouting merchants at night, but the landlord assures her that there are no markets within miles during the day, let alone at night.