The café "Mavi Cicek - Romantik Café" (Eng: Blue Flower -A Romantic Café) was located in one of the sporadically quiet side streets of Cologne. In the evenings, when most of the customers stayed away, Canan preferred to sit down at the piano and try her hand at some chords. That evening, too, she sat in front of the ebony-colored musical instrument and improvised. The piano was a gift from her father, which he had bought second-hand and given to her when the establishment opened. Over the years it had lost some of its sonority, but with the piano pedal veiling the high notes so that they resembled dull silver, one could still achieve a graceful atmosphere. On the grand piano stood a delicate vase of gossamer porcelain; in it was a single red rose. Her best friend, Betül, stood behind the cash register, watching as Canan sat on the piano bench's damaged leatherette - head tilted slightly to the left and lower lip devoutly advanced - playing obliviously. Her delicate fingertips floated deftly over the two-tone keyboard, melding the individual notes into a syntax of concise melody. As she sat there, she was reminiscent of an unselfconscious child absorbed in her own world of thought.

In another corner of the café was a lavishly decorated sofa. On it sat an elderly lady with a still face. She had leaned forward slightly so that her age-scarred back barely touched the flowing fabric of the stiff backrest. On the stool beside her were some balls of cloth and a crumpled blue plastic bag; on the side table was a cup of peppermint tea. Every now and then she glanced over the stainless steel rims of her thick glasses, listened briefly to the melodious tune, and gave the young woman a meek smile before turning her attention back to her knitting. Across from the old lady, at one of the tables lined with colorful porcelain lamps, sat in round wicker fauteuils three young girls in bright summer dresses. They often found themselves here and usually stayed longer than the other guests, otherwise the café was quiet.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, and the copper bell above it, caught by the tooth of a short metal rod as the glass door opened and closed, struck, drawing attention to the newcomer. The talented pianist sat so engrossed in thought over the keyboard that she missed the faint tinkling and only looked up at her friend's dismayed outcry. At the doorstep stood an enraged man with dark red anger on his face and tears in his eyes. The piano fell silent; the sounds choked, and the huge kitchen knife in his clenched fist dominated over the silent room.

"Why?!",he thundered. "Why? Why are you with him?!" He spat this nasally emitted sentence at her like a slimy snot. Canan slowly rose and looked over at him. It was Metin; he looked sick and bedraggled. His disheveled hair fell into his unshaven face. The sunken cheeks stuck to his skull like old leather. Deep furrows ran downward from his nose to the distorted corners of his mouth, lending his features something animalistic. With his inflamed eyes trembling restlessly, he stared angrily at her. He was taking the hard drugs again, Canan could tell by the stare. Slowly she strode toward him; he returned this concession with bitter steps on his part.

"No, don't go to him, Canan," her friend cried desperately.

"He won't hurt me," Canan countered, trying to calm her down a bit. And indeed, she did not feel any fear, rather she felt pity for him and what had become of him. They met in the middle of the café, and Metin dropped into her arms like a little child. "How could you?" he whimpered, pressing his sunken face against her shoulder. "H-how? H-how could y-you let someone else touch you?" These words made him cry much harder than before, so that the individual letters were choked in a sea of tears and could hardly be understood as a whole.

"Where have you been all these years?" asked Canan in a soft voice, and at the same time silent tears ran down her cheeks as well. While stroking through his hair, she at the same time pressed him lovingly against her.

"Y-y-you've -," he stammered, "broken everything. You're mine, aren't you?"

"Yes, my heart belongs to you, Metin. Nothing has ever changed about that," she replied to him.

He lifted his face and looked deeply into her eyes one last time. "Y-you, you belong only to me!" he shouted and silently slammed the kitchen knife.

Canan's eyes widened in bewilderment. The blade bit into her stomach like a tropical poisonous snake. She cried out briefly and looked at him questioningly. "Why?" she wanted to know. "Why did you do that?" she screamed at him. "I'm not worth it!" she said through thick tears.

"You're m-mine or nobody's," he replied with a heavy heart. "Oh-neyou, I don't want to live."

Canan then desperately reached for the knife and tried to pull it out, but he pushed the blade in even deeper so that the steel bored into her guts from front to back. Only then did he let go of it and take a step back; instantly he sank to the ground. Apathetically, Canan looked at him. Her hands were covered with blood and the knife was still stuck in his stomach. She ran to him and took him in her arms. "Somebody call an ambulance!" she cried hoarsely. "For God's sake, call an ambulance!" she cried. Slowly, Metin raised his hand and tenderly stroked her face. "It's okay," he spoke barely audible. He pressed an old notebook into her hand. "Th-th-this is what I sh-wrote for th-you," he said hoarsely. "It's a-a g-gift," he whispered, closing his eyes.

(...)

Some time later, Canan stood in the waiting area of the emergency room, pacing up and down the long hallway. Her eyelashes were still wet and dark circles had formed around her swollen eyes, but she was no longer crying. She couldn't cry anymore because she had already shed so many tears that there were none left. Metin underwent emergency surgery, but it did not look good for him. Apart from taking refuge in prayer, she had nothing left, nothing that she could do for him. This helpless waiting drove her almost insane. Her friend had also come along, but there was no one to comfort her at the moment. Canan leaned against the white wall in despair and let herself sink to the floor. She preferred the cool tile floor to the available waiting chairs. In her exhausted hands she still held the notebook. She opened the first page and began to read.

(...)