Acclaim for Louis de Bernières’
BIRDS WITHOUT WINGS
#1 INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER
“Quite astonishing and compulsively readable…. [De Bernières’] subtly differentiated characters attach themselves to us and won’t let go.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“An absorbing epic…. De Bernières [is] adept at juxtaposing brutality with episodes of high comedy or romance.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“With a book as rich as Birds Without Wings … we’re free to sit back and enjoy a huge story well told.”
—The Gazette (Montreal)
“De Bernières has unquestionably crafted a masterpiece.”
—The Chronicle Herald (Halifax)
“A sweeping account of the rise of modern Turkey and the last days of the Ottoman Empire. In an intensely personal way, [de Bernières] shows how these historic changes affected the inhabitants of Eskibahçe … and in a more global way … how misplaced imperial aspirations and gratuitous war can devastate ordinary people.”
—Newsday
“A literary triumph…. Louis de Bernières [may be] the next Leo Tolstoy.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“The most eagerly awaited novel of the year…. A mesmerizing patchwork of horror, humour and humanity.”
—Independent (UK)
“Louis de Bernières has the startling and wonderful gift of being able to take a history lesson and make it personal, engaging and consequential to the reader…. Birds Without Wings is a fascinating trip to an exotic, impassioned land struggling to give birth to a nation in the early 20th century. It fairly pushes a cup of sweet tea into your hand and bids you sit under a tree at the centre of a dusty, overlooked Anatolian town that’s not quite Turkish, not quite Greek…. Given the current state of world affairs, it is a much-needed—and gripping—examination.”
—Calgary Herald
“De Bernières is at his finest when he allows us to experience the hardships and horrors through the lives of the villagers. He writes movingly of the battle of Gallipoli from the Turkish point of view, and the brutal, dehumanizing conditions of trench warfare.”
—The Seattle Times
“Fine-grained prose that moves with the measured grace of a 19th century novel.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“An absorbing read about a remote but captivating time. The Ottoman world’s break-up is a rich, poignant story, and Mr. de Bernières is a good storyteller.”
—The Economist
“Unites the chimerical poetry of Gabriel García Márquez with the fine-grained domesticity of Trollope…. De Bernières … can move seamlessly from humour to poignancy and from easy charm to a searing anger.”
—Financial Times
“Enchanting…. At once intimate and sweeping…. At a time when the hypocrisy of modern invasions and of simplistic caricatures of other faiths circulates all too easily, this book offers a timely message to us all.”
—The Sydney Morning Herald
“Bears de Bernières’ literary hallmarks—vast emotional breadth, dazzling characterization, [and] rich historical detail … swerving between languid sensuality and horror, humour and choking despair.”
—Scotland on Sunday
“Operatic…. Splendid, lyrical…. De Bernières is a writer who can make you want to turn the page to find out what happens…. He has a blockbuster audacity in bringing together elements that work.”
—The Age
“Stunning…. Haunting…. Both exotically remote and tragically relevant…. So much is remarkable about this novel, from the heft of its history to the power of its legends…. A deeply rewarding work.”
—The Anchorage Press
Louis de Bernières
BIRDS WITHOUT WINGS
Louis de Bernières’ first three novels are The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts (Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, Best First Book Eurasia Region, 1991), Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord (Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, Best Book Eurasia Region, 1992), and The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman. The author was selected by Granta as one of the twenty Best of Young British Novelists in 1993. His fourth novel, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, Best Book, in 1995. His last book was Red Dog, published in 2001.
Also by Louis de Bernières
The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts
Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord
The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
Sunday Morning at the Centre of the World
Red Dog
In the grand scheme of things, this book is necessarily dedicated to the unhappy memory of the millions of civilians on all sides during the times portrayed, who became victims of the numerous death marches, movements of refugees, campaigns of persecution and extermination, and exchanges of population.
More personally, it is also dedicated to the memory of my maternal grandfather, Arthur Kenneth Smithells, of Nelson Battalion, the Royal Naval Division, who was severely wounded at Gallipoli, and in whose steps I trod while researching part of this novel.
Manet in pectus domesticum.
THE CAT
She was licking
the opened tin
for hours and hours
without realising
that she was drinking
her own blood.
Spyros Kyriazopoulos
CONTENTS
1 The Prologue of Iskander the Potter
2 Iskander the Potter Remembers the Birth of Philothei
3 Mustafa Kemal (1)
4 I am Philothei (1)
5 Exiled in Cephalonia, Drosoula Remembers Philothei
6 Mustafa Kemal (2)
7 The Dog
8 I Am Philothei (2)
9 Mustafa Kemal (3)
10 How Karatavuk and Mehmetçik Came to Be Called Karatavuk and Mehmetçik
11 Ibrahim Gives Philothei a Goldfinch
12 The Proof of Innocence (1)
13 The Proof of Innocence (2): A Bad Start
14 The Proof of Innocence (3): Mariora Returns to the Light
15 The Proof of Innocence (4): The Message to Mariora
16 Mustafa Kemal, Infantry Lieutenant 1474 (4)
17 Of Reading and Writing
18 I Am Philothei (3)
19 The Telltale Shoes
20 Mustafa Kemal (5)
21 I Am Philothei (4)
22 Ayse Remembers Tamara
23 Tamara’s Refuge
24 I Am Philothei (5)
25 Tales from the Journey to Smyrna
26 Mustafa Kemal (6)
27 The Tyranny of Honour
28 The Humiliation of Levon the Armenian
29 I Am Philothei (6)
30 Mustafa Kemal, His Own Policeman (7)
31 The Circassian Mistress (1)
32 The Circassian Mistress (2)
33 The Circassian Mistress (3)
34 Rustem Bey and Leyla Hanim
35 I Am Philothei (7)
36 A Cure for Toothache
37 Mustafa Kemal (8)
38 Exiled in Cephalonia, Drosoula Remembers Leyla and Philothei
39 The Seduction of Rustem Bey
40 The Veiling of Philothei
41 An Embarrassing Question
42 Mustafa Kemal (9)
43 I Am Philothei (8)
44 In Which a Playful Conversation Takes a Bad Turn
45 The Humiliation of Daskalos Leonidas
46 Mustafa Kemal (10)
47 I Am Philothei (9)
48 Of Righteousness and Wrongdoing
49 Mustafa Kemal (11)
50 The Exchange
/> 51 The Sadness of Rustem Bey
52 A Small Act of Kindness
53 The Removal
54 Olives
55 Mustafa Kemal (12)
56 The Letter from Karatavuk
57 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Karatavuk Remembers (1)
58 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Karatavuk Remembers (2)
59 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Karatavuk Remembers (3)
60 Mustafa Kemal (13)
61 I Am Philothei (10)
62 The Letter to Karatavuk
63 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Karatavuk Remembers (4)
64 Mustafa Kemal (14)
65 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Karatavuk Remembers (5)
66 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: Fikret and the Goat (6)
67 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: The Death of Fikret (7)
68 Mustafa Kemal (15)
69 Karatavuk at Gallipoli: The End of the Campaign (8)
70 Tamara Receives a Visitor
71 The Death of Abdulhamid Hodja
72 Mustafa Kemal (16)
73 I Am Philothei (11)
74 Lieutenant Granitola’s Occupation (1)
75 Mustafa Kemal (17)
76 Lieutenant Granitola’s Occupation (2)
77 I Am Philothei (12)
78 Mustafa Kemal (18)
79 I Am Philothei (13)
80 Mustafa Kemal (19)
81 Fritz and Moritz Accidentally Change History
82 Mustafa Kemal (20)
83 Lieutenant Granitola Takes His Leave
84 Mustafa Kemal (21)
85 I Am Georgio P. Theodorou
86 Mustafa Kemal (22)
87 I Am Philothei (14)
88 Exodus
89 I Am Philothei (15)
90 Leyla Hanim’s Letter to Rustem Bey
91 Exiled in Cephalonia, Drosoula Remembers the Death of Philothei
92 I Am Ayse
93 I Am Ibrahim
94 Drosoula Remembers the Voyage into Exile
95 The Wounding of Karatavuk
EPILOGUE
1 What the New Imam Did
2 I Am Karatavuk
3 Pamuk
4 The Epilogue of Iskander the Potter
5 Mehmet the Tinsman and the New Copper Dish
6 The Epilogue of Karatavuk the Letter-Writer
POSTSCRIPT
Fethiye in the Twenty-first Century
CHAPTER 1
The Prologue of Iskander the Potter
The people who remained in this place have often asked themselves why it was that Ibrahim went mad. I am the only one who knows, but I have always been committed to silence, because he begged me to respect his grief, or, as he also put it, to take pity upon his guilt. Now that he is mad, and the sun has long since dried the rain that washed away the blood upon the rocks, and there is almost no one left who recalls the lovely Philothei, it seems to me that no one would be betrayed if finally the truth of it were known. With us there has been so much blood that in restrospect none of it seems believable, and it cannot matter much if finally I tell of the last misfortune that fell upon Philothei, sweet-natured, Christian, vain and beautiful.
There comes a point in life where each one of us who survives begins to feel like a ghost that has forgotten to die at the right time, and certainly most of us were more amusing when we were young. It seems that age folds the heart in on itself. Some of us walk detached, dreaming on the past, and some of us realise that we have lost the trick of standing in the sun. For many of us the thought of the future is a cause for irritation rather than optimism, as if we have had enough of new things, and wish only for the long sleep that rounds the edges of our lives. I feel this weariness myself.
We are in any case a serious people here. Life was merrier when the Christians were still among us, not least because almost every one of their days was the feast of some saint. Little work was done, it seemed, but at least their revelry was infectious. Our religion makes us grave and thoughtful, dignified and melancholy, whereas theirs did not exact much discipline. Perhaps it was something to do with the wine. For them it was a precious and sacred thing, because they thought it was something like the blood of God, whereas for us the pleasure of it has always been soured since the Prophet of God forbad it. Peace be upon him, but I have often wished that he had decided otherwise. We drink, but we dislike ourselves in drinking. Sometimes we did drink with our Christians, and caught their high spirits in the same way that one catches malaria from the chill night air, but, left on our own now, there is a sadness seeping out of the stones of this half-deserted town.
Ibrahim the Mad was one of our most entertaining when he was young. It was said that there was a smile at the corners of his lips from the moment of his birth, and from early boyhood he was a specialist in inappropriate interjections. To be precise, he perfected a repertoire of bleats that exactly mimicked the stupid comments of a goat in all its various states of mind; a goat that is surprised, a goat that is looking for its kid, a goat that is protesting, a goat that is hungry, a goat that is perplexed, a goat that is in rut. His most popular bleat, however, was that of a goat that has nothing to say. This bleat was the perfect parody of unintelligence, empty-headedness, inanity and harmlessness. If you want to know what it sounded like, just go up past the ancient tombs to where the limepit is. It is in the wild ground near there that Ibrahim the Mad still watches the goats, even though he is no longer sane. You should beware of his great dog. It is a very fine animal that takes each goat back to its owner every evening, without Ibrahim the Mad having to do anything at all, but it is a somewhat ready-fanged dog that recognises a stranger straight away by the smell. If you cannot find Ibrahim there, then listen for the sound of the kaval, and follow it. He blows it so sadly that it makes you stand still and go into mourning. He does not bleat himself any more, but listens to the goats as they wander from shrub to shrub, and you will soon recognise the bleat of a goat with nothing to say.
Ibrahim used to do it quite suddenly in the middle of a conversation, or at a solemn moment in a ceremony, and when he was a small boy his father used to beat him for it. One day he even interrupted the imam, Abdulhamid Hodja, who was making some interminable point about the law, which was one of his habits, may he rest in paradise. This was under the plane trees where the old men sit in the meydan. Anyway, Ibrahim crept up behind a tree—he was about eight years old—and bleated quite suddenly when everyone else was listening quietly and respectfully. There was a shocked silence, and then Ibrahim giggled and ran away. The men looked at each other, and Ibrahim’s father leapt to his feet, his face flushed with anger and shame. But Abdulhamid was a good-natured man who was naturally dignified enough not to have to be concerned about offences against his dignity, and he put his hand on the other’s sleeve. “Don’t strike him,” he said. “I was bleating myself, and now someone else should have the chance to speak.” Ibrahim’s father was called Ali the Broken-Nosed.
The men were puzzled by the imam’s tolerance of such disrespect, but the word spread that the imam considered that there was something providential in the irreverence of the boy, so from then onwards his mischief was accepted as one of the normal hazards of life. Back in those days Ibrahim was a friend of my son, Karatavuk, and I can truly say that he was not mad at all, he was merely framed by God in a comical way. If you want to see him as he is now, you don’t have to go up to the tombs, now that I come to think of it. Just wait until he returns with the goats, and the great dog delivers them home for the night. Ibrahim the Mad knows the name of each goat, but apart from that his head is empty enough to rent.
They say that, for a madman, every day is a holiday, but they also say that insanity has seventy gates. It is true that many of the mad are happy, as you can see by the idiots of this town who sit on the walls and grin and piss themselves, but I know that the gate through which Ibrahim travelled was the gate of unconquerable sorrow, and that his mind remains a cataract of grief. I think that back in those days many of us were maddened by hatred because of the
war with the Greeks, and in all honesty I include myself, but Ibrahim was the one among us whose mind was disengaged by love.
Ibrahim blamed himself, and if I had been one of her brothers or one of her other relatives, I would have come back from exile and killed him. The peculiar thing is, however, that nothing would have happened to Philothei at all, if other things had not been happening in the great world. So it is my opinion that the blame belongs more widely, not only to Ibrahim but to all of us who lived in this place, as well as to those in other parts who were bloodthirsty and ambitious.
In those days we came to hear of many other countries that had never figured in our lives before. It was a rapid education, and many of us are still confused. We knew that our Christians were sometimes called “Greeks,” although we often called them “dogs” or “infidels,” but in a manner that was a formality, or said with a smile, just as were their deprecatory terms for us. They would call us “Turks” in order to insult us, at the time when we called ourselves “Ottomans” or “Osmanlis.” Later on it turned out that we really are “Turks,” and we became proud of it, as one does of new boots that are uncomfortable at first, but then settle into the feet and look exceedingly smart. Be that as it may, one day we discovered that there actually existed a country called “Greece” that wanted to own this place, and do away with us, and take away our land. We knew of Russians before, because of other wars, but who were these Italians? Who were these other Frankish people? Suddenly we heard of people called “Germans,” and people called “French,” and of a place called Britain that had governed half the world without us knowing of it, but it was never explained to us why they had chosen to come and bring us hardship, starvation, bloodshed and lamentation, why they played with us and martyred our tranquillity.
I blame these Frankish peoples, and I blame potentates and pashas whose names I will probably never know, and I blame men of God of both faiths, and I blame all those who gave their soldiers permission to behave like wolves and told them that it was necessary and noble. Because of what I accidentally did to my son Karatavuk, I was in my own small way one of these wolves, and I am now burned up by shame. In the long years of those wars here were too many who learned how to make their hearts boil with hatred, how to betray their neighbours, how to violate women, how to steal and dispossess, how to call upon God when they did the Devil’s work, how to enrage and embitter themselves, and how to commit outrages even against children. Much of what was done was simply in revenge for identical atrocities, but I tell you now that even if guilt were a coat of sable, and the ground were deep in snow, I would rather freeze than wear it.
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