The Birds Have Also Gone

by Yashar Kemal

  The instant they had gone, the meatball carts, the shoeshine boxes, the stalls of itinerant vendors appeared again, and in greater number than before. Where a little while ago there had been not a single vendor of helva wafers, now three of them had materialised and were airily trundling their white-painted carts. One of them was calling out at the top of his voice: “Good honeyed helva! Honey, pure honey!” He was shouting so hard that it brought tears to his eyes. The whole place rang with his vibrant cries.

  “Those were police,” Mahmut explained. “Municipality police … Quick, back to the steps. The field’s clear now. Just right …”

  They toted the cages back and set them down on the steps again.

  Mahmut decided he would do the calling first.

  “Fly and be free, fly little bird … Free …”

  He modulated his voice into a warm moving song and suddenly there was quite a crowd forming around them.

  “Fly little bird, free as the air, and meet me at the gates of Paradise! Paradise, ah Paradise …”

  Mahmut had made it into a real song now. It was for these boys. Not for the world, not if they killed him would he have done such a thing, not in his wildest dreams. Yet here he was, he, Mahmut, hawking birds in crowded Taksim Square, and singing too, as though it was a lullaby or a hymn. The idea that he was doing this only for the boys gave him a noble feeling. He had even begun to like the sound of his own voice.

  The crowd kept growing. Soon people were crushing each other to get a glimpse of the birds. Completely carried away now, Mahmut drifted from mode to mode, and it must have been half an hour or more before he was aware that no one had yet bought a single bird!

  He blew his top.

  “Well, why don’t you buy one, damn it? These birds are for sale. If you don’t buy them for ‘fly and be free’, they’ll all die in their cages, damn it …”

  There was not the slightest reaction from the onlookers. They just stood and stared at the exhausted birds which were struggling and twittering more feebly now in their cages. Their eyes, too, were slowly losing their brightness.

  “Come on, my friends,” Mahmut entreated, “buy a bird, it costs so little, nothing really. Look, these boys here, instead of turning to sharp practices, instead of cheating and thieving and picking pockets, these boys are giving you the chance to do a good deed. Think, a good deed! It’s for this that they’ve captured all these birds. Come on, brothers, buy them! Buy these birds and cast them up, free, into the sky. Watch them fly away, full of joy … Come on, brothers …”

  He gazed at the sky. A white cloud floated right above, a round, perfectly white cloud. Mahmut smiled. His eyes, full of hope now, rested on the crowd again and he went on, his voice growing more and more impassioned.

  “My friends, my compassionate brothers, what human being, what heart could remain unmoved and allow these birds to die in their cages? No one, no one! Buy them, my brothers, buy them and set them free. Free them so they can fly for your own good, to wait for you at the gates of beautiful Paradise …”

  Standing there, on the fifth step, above the crowd, he was like a prophet exhorting his fellow men to pity and compassion for all God’s creatures, for the birds and beasts and insects … His voice rose and fell, now full of wrath, now gentle, appealing, a moaning plaint.

  “Look, brothers, look at these birds, at these children here, just kids …”

  He waved his hand at the boys.

  “It’s because they had faith, faith in you, that they caught all those birds. If they hadn’t trusted you, would they ever have caught so many and been the cause of their death? These kids are human beings too, aren’t they? They’ve got human feelings too, haven’t they? If they hadn’t, instead of messing about with birds, they could well have become thieves. Or even murderers …”

  Suddenly he lost his temper. Such was his rage that he jabbered on incoherently, while the onlookers, forgetting the birds, stared at him in amazement.

  “Murderers! And kill you instead of these birds! Kill …”

  With difficulty, he controlled himself and went on more calmly.

  “It’s because they trusted you, these kids … Because that’s how it’s been for centuries, the children catch these little birds and men of good will, with pity in their hearts, buy them and cast them up, high up …”

  He pointed at the sky. The white cloud was still there, glowing in a flood of light.

  “Buy them, brothers, buy these birds! Come on, they don’t cost much, only the price of a simit,fn2 ten liras. No, no, five liras.” This still seemed too much to Mahmut. He lowered the price again. “And some you can have for two and a half liras. Only two and a half!”

  His voice was growing hoarse.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, my friends?” he said. “Look what a lovely day it is, and the sun shining so brightly … Isn’t it a shame to see these poor little birds cooped up like this in a cage on such a lovely day? Now, tell me, isn’t it?”

  He had lapsed into a faint mumble, as though talking to himself, and the crowd, losing interest, was beginning to break up. Seeing the people turning away after all the trouble he’d had getting them together, Mahmut exerted himself afresh.

  “This way, brothers, this way! Free a bird and win a place in Paradise. Like this …”

  Running to the cages, he extracted a largish bird and took up his stand on the steps again. With the bird cradled in his hands, he made as if he were praying over it, then, lifting his right hand as high as he could, he opened his fingers. The bird darted away at once. It flew first over the Opera building, turned to the Continental Hotel, veered off over Taksim Park and the Sheraton and vanished in the direction of the Bosphorus.

  Mahmut rushed back to the cages. One after the other, he took the birds and cast them up into the air.

  “Like this, like this!” he shouted.

  It was no use. The crowd kept drifting away.

  “Like this! So, so!” Frantically he flung one last bird into the air as though casting a stone. Exhausted, his brow and hair wet with perspiration, he glared at the last stragglers.

  “Shame on you! Damn you all, you godforsaken creatures … Shame!”

  People stared at him, astonished, as he collapsed on the lowest step, his head hanging.

  It was some time before he could bring himself to look at the boys. There was no one left by the cages now. The two boys were all alone, Süleyman, his neck still stretched to snapping point, Hayri huddled in a corner. Mahmut longed to get away from it all, but how could he leave the boys among these brutes when he had brought them here himself?

  It was then that another miracle happened. An old gentleman with white hair was passing by, leaning on his cane. He stopped near the cages, smiling, and then, as though some distant memory was stirring in him, he turned to Süleyman.

  “So it’s birds you’ve got there, is it?” he asked gently.

  “Birds … Yes …” Süleyman faltered.

  “So! Birds … In my young days, boys like you always sold birds like this, come autumn time. I used to myself … How much are these birds?”

  “Give me whatever you like,” Süleyman said in a surly gruff voice, ashamed to show his joy.

  In the same instant he regretted having answered so roughly, but the old gentleman held out three five-lira notes.

  “Give me three,” he said.

  “Certainly, right away, good uncle …”

  Quickly, with trembling hands, Süleyman took out three birds and put them into the hands of this unexpected customer. His cane hanging from his arm, the old gentleman lifted his head towards the white cloud. Very gently, he let go of the birds and, after one last look, shuffled on, still with that happy smile on his lips.

  Süleyman dashed down the steps to Mahmut. His face was flushed with joy.

  “Look,” he said, showing him the fifteen liras.

  “Good. Put that in your pocket,” Mahmut told him.

  “Come with me now,” Süleyman sa
id.

  “You’re doing very well by yourself,” Mahmut said. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. “Go on now,” he insisted, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

  Süleyman ran back to the cages. Ah, he thought as he stood on the steps gazing at the crowds, so many, many people, if they only bought one bird each and set it free, not forgetting to say a prayer, how lovely it would be, how lovely … His eyes kept going to a meatball cart nearby. It was painted blue and all around the edge was a design of pink flowers with orange eyes, magic flowers, not to be found on this earth. In the centre, under a cluster of white clouds, was a lake, blue-green, radiantly bright, with swans swimming on it, exactly seven swans, long-necked, majestic, and on the shore of the lake was a slender clump of reeds and little mauve and red flowers that were also not of this world. Cranes in bevelled formation flew from one end of the cart to the other. On the opposite side of the cart, a running deer had been painted, dream-like, enchanted, and above it a copper eagle with broad wings and wild razor-sharp eyes. The wheels on which the cart was set were old bicycle wheels, but their nickel plating was polished bright. The brazier on the cart was alight and blue flames rose from the live coals. The meatball vendor, a young man of medium height with large hazel eyes and a trim pointed moustache, wore a blue apron on which a young girl, his betrothed no doubt, had painstakingly embroidered a rose, large and bright yellow. He was a brisk breezy fellow who could not keep still one minute, always on the go, now wiping his tomatoes with a paper handkerchief to make them shine, next piling up green peppers, then, dissatisfied, aligning them neatly side by side. A wide grin on his face, he kept chaffing the other meatball vendors and the shoeshine boys next to him and cheerfully bandying words with anyone who came his way.

  By now, the square was covered with orange rinds, torn paper, empty plastic bags, cucumber peelings, cabbage leaves and all kinds of rubbish.

  Suddenly, Süleyman was roused from his reverie.

  “Hey, boy,” a young man was addressing him, “are these birds yours?”

  Süleyman jumped as though startled out of sleep.

  “They’re mine,” he mumbled.

  “How much?”

  “Ten liras,” Süleyman said boldly.

  “Indeed?”

  The young man crouched in front of the cages and stared fixedly. Then, he opened the door of the largest cage and began taking out birds. One by one, he thrust them into his shirt.

  “Five,” he said, straightening up, and he handed Süleyman a fifty-lira note. Without stopping he made straight off in the direction of the Bayonet Monument, trampling over the green lawn, and disappeared down Kazanci slope.

  Süleyman, mesmerised, was still gaping at the fifty-lira note when Hayri called out to him.

  “Put that money away, will you!”

  Süleyman burst out laughing. He shoved the money into his pocket, but he could not stop himself, he broke into fits of laughter.

  “Stop it!” Hayri cried. “What’s the matter with you? Laughing like a strumpet in front of all these people!”

  And then there was another customer. He had a porter’s pack strapped to his back and this gave him a stooping gait, but his shoulders were very broad. His face, hollow-cheeked, unshaven, with deep-set coal-black eyes, wore an expression of infinite sadness.

  Gently, as though afraid to break it, he touched one of the cages.

  “Say, lads, what have we here?”

  “Birds,” Hayri replied shortly.

  “Dear me, what a lot of them!”

  “That’s right,” Hayri said.

  “And what are they for?”

  “To fly,” Hayri snapped.

  Süleyman intervened hurriedly. “Of course they fly, but … Look, uncle, if you pay ten liras and buy one …”

  “Then what?”

  “You set it free and it’ll take flight, up there.” Süleyman pointed to the cloud. “It’ll fly and wait for you at the gate of Paradise.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. I see now,” the porter said happily. “But ten lira’s too much.”

  “We’ll make if five for you,” Hayri said.

  Süleyman cast him an angry glance and tried again. But the porter drove a long hard bargain and in the end managed to obtain three birds for two and a half liras each. Then he went to sit on a bench under a tree beside the steps and, staring intently at the birds, kissed and caressed them gently, talking to them in a low voice all the time. It was impossible to make out what he was saying. Maybe he was speaking in another tongue and not Turkish at all. And suddenly a song rose from under the tree, more like a moan, a long drawn-out lament. Like a flood of light, like a shimmering stream, pure and limpid, the song rippled softly under the noise and bustle of the square.

  Süleyman’s legs went weak and he sank onto the steps. The song had brought back everything, his mother, the kilim, Semih’s betrayal, and he wanted to cry his heart out. Hayri, too, was touched to the quick. He felt himself stranded on a wide boundless stretch of sea. Mahmut went on smoking frenziedly, lighting one cigarette after another, gazing now at the porter, now at the boys and at the few stragglers who had stopped to listen to the singing. The whole of Taksim Square, the crowds, the motorcars and buses, and even the apartment buildings seemed to have fallen silent, holding their breath, giving ear to the song.

  It broke off abruptly. The man stood up. Cradling the first bird delicately in his hand, he touched his lips to it and opened his palm. The little bird’s head jerked to right and left, then with a quick flutter of its wings it darted up and away. A strange beauty, a brightness that was somehow very sad, suffused the porter’s gaunt features. He looked after the vanishing bird, on tiptoe, as though he would take flight in its wake. In the same manner he released the other two birds he had bought and his arms fell to his sides.

  “Go, little birds, go and carry greetings to my homeland,” he murmured as he walked away, his back stooped once more. Without another look at Süleyman and the cages, he plunged into the tangle of traffic and crossed to the opposite pavement.

  After this there was a small trickle of buyers. One old woman, wearing a shawl over her head, gave a cry of joy on catching sight of the birds.

  “For my grandson!” she exclaimed. “I’d promised him, but it’s three years now that I haven’t come across a single bird seller. There aren’t any left nowadays.”

  With trembling hands, she put a couple of birds carefully into a paper bag and hurried off into the crowd.

  Such a human tide was surging through the square now that a pin could not have dropped down. People rushed about, shouting, howling, cars hooted their horns, the noise of engines, the clanking, the rattling … The odour of petrol, of burnt grease …

  Süleyman’s hopes rose. He waited and waited, but not a single person from all this crowd came forward to buy a bird.

  He started shouting.

  “Fly and be free! Hey, people, come up, come up! It’s for ‘fly and be free’ …” His voice rose to breaking point. “For your Paradise! Paradise! To wait for you at the gates of Paradise … One bird, one Paradise … Fly these birds, free them …”

  His neck craned towards the passers-by, he was yelling himself black in the face, but no one even turned to give him a look.

  And then, as though he had suddenly gone mad, he started stamping on the steps, gesturing wildly and hurling the coarsest oaths at all and sundry. One or two people stopped and stared at this boy, thrashing on the steps, calling out insults and curses, then went their way. This made Süleyman redouble his swearing.

  At one point, a lad wearing tight blue jeans and mud-caked shoes halted in front of Süleyman and admonished him.

  “What’s the idea, cursing everyone like this, you little bastard?” he growled. “No one wants your birds, that’s all! Are people obliged to buy those birds just because you’ve caught them? Shut your trap, or else …”

  His fists clenched, ready to strike;
he was lunging at Süleyman when Hayri shot out like an arrow from where he had been crouching.

  “Move off, will you, and double-quick too, if you want to live,” he hissed. “We’ve got nothing to lose anyway …”

  The youth had not bargained for this. Hayri evidently meant business. Spitting onto the steps, he hurried away, his fat buttocks rolling in the too-tight jeans.

  Süleyman stopped cursing and hurled a gobbet of phlegm after the youth. Hayri did the same.

  Feeling better now, Süleyman began to shout again.

  “You see these birds?” he cried in ringing tones. “If you don’t buy them and set them free, we’re going to eat them all tonight.”

  He picked up one of the cages and, stepping down into the square, he waved it in the faces of the passers-by.

  “Buy them, buy these birds and save their lives. Think, tonight we’ll have to wring their necks and eat them … All of them …”

  He smacked his lips.

  “We will eat them. Yummy, fat juicy birds …”

  Hayri also picked up a cage, planted himself on the steps and joined Süleyman.

  “We will eat them. We will eat all of these poor birds …”

  Mahmut sprang to his feet and grabbed a third cage.

  “Look, people,” he shouted. “See these hungry boys? They have nothing to eat but these little birds. If you don’t buy them …”

  “Why should they eat them?” someone asked.

  “Because they need to. They’re hungry …”

  “They ought to do some useful work instead of wasting their time catching birds.”

  “Now, what kind of work is there that these kids could do?”

  “Let them sell cigarettes.”

  Süleyman was still shouting, but his eyes were now on that meatball cart painted with flowers, on the smoking stovepipe.

  All three of them went on shouting for a while, inventing all kinds of reasons for people to buy their birds.

  Evening came, the sun set and the city lights went on. Yellow, red, green, orange, the neon signs of banks, stores, hotels, business companies began to blink and glow, and a haze of coloured light enveloped the city.