When he found the strength to take his eyes from the bloodstains on the skirting board, they came to rest on the portrait of Atatürk. While they exchanged quiet glances, the muhtar asked himself if time had stopped; as unwilling as he might be to entertain that possibility, he suspected that it had. But if that was the case, then the time had come to restore it. So he reached into the innards of his waistcoat and retrieved his seal. He placed it on the desk in front of him, while a wordless Atatürk looked on.
‘I’ve brought the horse,’ said the watchman.
He stood up, gave the room one last gloomy once-over, and blew out the candle. Another muhtar, at least as gloomy as he, had long ago locked the door and made his way to the horse at the foot of the flagpole. The watchman, brought up short by the pace of events, stumbled behind him.
‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked.
The muhtar laid claim to the horse’s reins, gripping them tight. ‘There’s no other way,’ he said.
He paid no attention to the watchman, or the door of his office, the horse’s heels or the village nestling in darkness; instead he gazed into the far distance. And then he gazed beyond that, to the place those living there would see if they, too, gazed into the far distance, and in that spirit he began his wanderings.
‘Don’t take down the flag,’ came his voice from afar. ‘Keep it up until I come home!’
The watchman nodded. The muhtar loosened the impatient horse’s bridle to allow it to take a quick bow.
‘And don’t try to open my office. I’ve locked the door.’
‘Have you got the key with you?’
‘Yes, I have!’
‘Fine, then,’ mumbled the watchman.
The muhtar spurred the horse and it leapt towards the darkness. Just as it was vanishing from sight, he came to an abrupt stop. The muhtar leant back, clinging to the reins. The watchman, thinking he’d forgotten something, took up his rifle and raced off towards him. But as he neared, there was again the echo of horses’ hooves. The muhtar was leaning down to say something to the watchman. He seemed about to dismount, to dash back through the night to his office. Then suddenly a second horse emerged from behind the watchman. Sitting on its back was another upright muhtar.
‘In all honesty,’ he asked the watchman, ‘why does the snow fall?’
23
The man in the chair was staring deep into the mirror, as if he were still dreaming. It made him tired, just to see how tired he looked. At the same time, he was sure that if he took his eyes off the mirror, he would probably fall asleep again. This time he would dream of puttering over the mountains on a motorcycle, crossing the plains in search of a village that the world had forgotten. But its inhabitants had not forgotten him; some were watching the road, some dreaming of the road and some whispering of their memories of his last visit.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
I wasn’t completely sure that he had spoken. Because the voice I heard was far away, and as weak as a clumsy sentence. Each word was its own phantom. Maybe the man in the chair had only thought these words. Maybe I was still waiting for him to say them. I took a deep breath and looked at him, waiting for him to repeat them.
‘I have to go,’ he said again.
‘Where?’ I asked. With sleep-fogged eyes, he gazed at my reflection in the mirror.
‘You said you had to go somewhere?’
This made him laugh. I was, I feared, the object of a joke I had yet to understand.
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort,’ he snapped.
That took me aback. I decided I must have angered him when I’d said he’d been dreaming. Now this was his revenge. Because the moment he worked out that I wasn’t sure what I had heard, the ghost of a smirk crossed his face.
‘You never said you had to go?’ I asked again.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I never did.’
‘Fine, but what was the last thing you said to me?’
‘I said maybe this conversation we’re having right now is nothing but a dream.’
Then silence. At a loss, I looked back into the mirror.
He was scraping the foam off his face, but that ghost of a smirk was still there. Yes, most definitely. He was enjoying his revenge.
‘Don’t be upset,’ he said next, in a voice that was both childish and grave. ‘I didn’t say I was going, but I am going. I can’t waste any more time waiting for this barber.’
Though I did not wish to cause more trouble, I decided to ask him where he was going, one last time. But for some reason, I couldn’t coax the words from my mouth. And once again, it seemed as if he could hear what I hadn’t said, for he gave me a watery grin as he leant down into the sink to wash his face. What was this contest that bound us together? It had no name, though it had us eyeing and goading each other. Whatever we said, it turned into a game of wits.
As he rose from the chair, he pulled the towel off his neck to dry his face.
In a soft voice, I asked, ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a postman,’ he said, gesturing towards the motorcycle parked outside. ‘Actually, I detest that word . . . I prefer “herald” . . . I like having a motorcycle, of course.’
He draped his towel over the back of the chair. Moving to the door, he looked at his watch.
‘Are you off then?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve left it too late,’ I said. ‘You might as well not go.’
He turned to look at his motorcycle.
‘How could you ever know how late I was?’ he said stubbornly. ‘I need to go.’
24
A few days after the muhtar rode off into the city, Cennet’s son came down from the mountains carrying a jet-black snake. He acted as if he’d never been lost, but with his hair growing into his beard, he seemed to blur at the edges, like a ghost. Entering the village he paid no attention to the children running along behind him; he had eyes only for the snake in his arms. Sometimes he would mumble a few incomprehensible words, sometimes he would stroke its head, only to shiver and look back up at the cliffs. It was almost as if he had spent his lost days in the mountains wrestling snakes, and now had a whole nest of them after him, seeking their revenge, for he watched his back as if his life depended on it.
By now there was a huge crowd of children trailing him. The white-bearded old men at the foot of the wall agreed that there was absolutely no difference between this return and Cıngıl Nuri’s all those years ago. But it did not surprise them. Life always insisted on repeating itself: the same play with different actors, as time passed by . . . But this time, there was no shiny paper or shredded tinfoil. Instead there was a jet-black snake. There was Cennet’s son, in Nuri’s body. As for those noisy boys – they were reliving the legend that their older siblings had passed down to them. Now it was their turn to find the fear in their curiosity. For everything about Cennet’s son, from the way he moved to the way his hair grew into his beard, made him Cıngıl Nuri’s replica, so much so that they were tempted to bring Nuri down to the village square, to show him how he had looked all those years ago, on the day of his return.
But this was not to be, for the children didn’t give them the chance; instead they formed a tight ring around Cennet’s son, their voices rising and rising as they trailed him from street to street with an ever-growing clamour. By the time they reached the coffeehouse in the village square they might have been an army. Cennet’s son paused for a moment. With a raised arm, he signalled for the boys to stop. Which they did, then and there. Then, following his lead, they dropped to the ground, forming a large circle. No one made a sound. Except for the few who rubbed the backs of their hands in the dirt, to scrape off the snot, no one moved, or even breathed, as they fed their curiosity on the man in their midst. He returned the compliment, examining each face, as if in search of something he had lost. Then, as the boys shivered and gasped, he straightened out the snake as if it were some sort of scarf, and wound it around his neck. The snake raised its h
ead, thrust out its flickering tongue, until one of the boys could no longer stand it.
‘Woouuuoooow!’ he shouted.
And it was as if they had all been waiting for this cue, for now the boys began to shout and stamp their feet. The noise travelled all the way to Cıngıl Nuri’s house, and then past this house, to the mill and then the cemetery. When the villagers reached the village square, all they could see was a ghostly cloud of dust. Plunging into it, they fought their way past the children to get to Cennet’s son. Even the old men who had been watching from the sidelines now walked one by one, bones rattling, into the fray. But once they had done so, they formed a separate group, watching in silence as everyone else laughed at Cennet’s son – laughed at him hard.
And then, without warning, Cennet’s son shook off the snake. They all held their breath in expectation of another special trick. It was all so sudden that those who had been bent over laughing remained bent over, even as they gave the snake their undivided attention. Everyone, from those who had come out of the coffeehouse to those who had come running from the fields, was standing shoulder to shoulder, trying to find out what they had missed.
Before long, they heard an engine puttering in the distance. First the watchman and then the rest of the village forgot all about Cennet’s son. Instead they turned in the direction of the mill, to watch a yellow motorcycle racing towards them down the winding roads until at last it came to a halt in the middle of their own crowded village square. The man who now put one foot on the ground was the postman. His hair had grown into his beard. He asked for the muhtar, just as he had done so many years earlier.
‘He’s gone to the city,’ said the watchman. ‘Whatever you’ve brought, you can give it to me.’
Glaring at the children who were pawing his motorbike, the postman reached into the saddle. With a grand flourish, he pulled out a dusty letter. All eyes were glued. All ears strained to know what news he’d brought. Even Rıza, who had been drinking heavily since the day his niece was kidnapped, swearing at anyone who had the temerity to come near, even he pushed his way through the crowd, hoping that the postman had brought news of Güvercin.
‘Stop playing games. Just read it!’ he blurted, his voice heavily flavoured with rakı. The watchman said nothing; folding the letter, he put it into his pocket and walked towards the plane tree. Then a thought came to him, or so it seemed. He wheeled around and looked at the postman, still perched on his motorcycle, leaning on one leg. But every time the watchman blinked, the postman seemed to be riding back into the village. So he danced around the plane tree, coming to a rest in the place where he’d begun, with a final stamp of the foot.
‘Rest your weary feet, my friend,’ he said. ‘Get off that bike of yours and drink some of our tea!’ The postman stroked his beard for a while and gazed at the great crowd of boys. If he left them to watch over his motorcycle while he drank his tea, he’d be too far away to keep an eye.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I have to go.’
A few others tried to insist, but the postman wouldn’t change his mind. He had to press down on the kickstarter a few times before the motorcycle sprang to life. Suddenly, his head flew back and the motorcycle shot forward. He took one more quick loop around the children and the plane tree, and then he was gone. Shielding their eyes from the sun, the villagers watched him slip past the mill, to disappear in a cloud of dust.
Cennet’s son was left all alone with his snake outside the coffeehouse, entertaining a crowd of imaginary spectators. Some time later, when the children had tired of the departing motorcycle, they again crowded around him to watch. The villagers, meanwhile, sat beneath the plane tree, watching the watchman.
‘Just read it,’ said Rıza.
The watchman opened up the letter as slowly as he could, thinking it might be from the muhtar. Mouth firmly shut, he read it to himself first. Then he paused to think, very deeply. But then, his shoulders started shaking. He began to laugh, while the villagers around him exchanged quizzical looks.
‘You take it,’ said the watchman to Cıngıl Nuri. ‘Look, this telegram mentions you. Your relatives came back from reporting you missing many years ago, but this telegram has only just arrived. How splendid is that! And look, it says that they still haven’t been able to find you!’
Now everyone was laughing. Nuri seized the telegram, not knowing what to do with it. He looked up at the watchman and let out a strange little giggle.
‘Look at the good work God has done,’ said the imam. ‘He has changed painful news into a source of great mirth . . .’
The villagers nodded. Nuri folded the telegram and slipped it into his pocket, as carefully as if it were an official certificate of absence. Still smiling, he sat down.
‘Get up,’ said the watchman, crossing his legs. ‘Get up and get us a tray of tea – we should drink to this news!’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking to. I’ve still not been found,’ smirked Nuri. ‘I’m lost! If you like, I can show you documentation!’
‘I don’t want to see it, get up and get the tea!’
Still smiling, Nuri got up.
‘None for me,’ mumbled the imam.
He stood up and walked towards the barber shop, snapping his prayer beads all the way. His shadow took the shape of a dark creature. The imam considered for a moment if there might be nothing left on this earth but the shadow cast upon the earth by the first to walk it. A chill passed through him. Just the thought of it frightened him – just the idea of it. He muttered a quick prayer.
When he came through the door, the barber was sitting by himself. His ears were still ringing from the puttering motorcycle. So, too, were mine.
25
And a chill went through me, for it seemed that the imam had come to the city barber shop rather than the one in the village. Though he brought the village square with him. It was hard to believe he wasn’t still there, in his chair by the wall, his hands carefully placed upon his knees, slowly clicking his prayer beads while his blank eyes wandered. At one point we locked eyes. But he seemed so far away – from the shop, and from himself – that I chose to remain still and silent. I did not even dare blink. For I knew that he was here to share my solitude. I had no choice but to sit here saying nothing until his shadow receded.
So there I sat, waiting; I waited for what seemed like hours, watching the cars and the crowds in the streets roll past, only to return as phantoms in the mirror, only to vanish into nowhere with the jagged glints of light bouncing off the scissors and the silent taps, until only the imam remained. By now, I had, to some extent, become him. When I left the barber shop to make my way back to the village square, I was wearing a confused frown.
My shadow followed on behind me, of course. But it kept pulling me back. Heavy as a dead bear, it was. So heavy that I was soon wondering how long I could keep it up. But somehow I managed to walk past the plane tree, and the villagers sitting underneath, and Cennet’s son, who was still performing for the children gathered around him, and a few ox-carts piled high with chickpeas, and the white-bearded old men at the foot of the wall. Until at last I had arrived at Rıza’s shop.
I found Rıza at the counter, holding an almost-finished glass of rakı in his hands, as he talked to his son Ramazan.
‘You saw it with your own eyes,’ he said, pointing at the road the postman had taken. ‘There’s still no news of Güvercin!’
Ramazan nodded, and the shop seemed to darken. Perhaps they didn’t intend it, but father and son drew closer together as the night and the scents of soap and grease closed in on them. While I lingered at the door – erasing myself, almost – as I absorbed their words.
‘Your Uncle Reşit doesn’t have a brain in his head! For months now, I’ve been saying we should go and talk to the imam. I said it so often, the words burned the hair off my tongue, but would he listen? The man’s as stubborn as a goat . . . I’m telling you, the imam doesn’t make mistakes about this kind of thing. Even if he did, let’s not
forget that he was the one who found Cıngıl Nuri all those years ago. Well, not exactly. But you know what I mean. Even if Nuri returned to the village all by himself. We were arguing about this again today; I didn’t exactly say that it was God’s doing but I put aside my respect for your aunt, and said what I thought! Then your aunt pitched in, saying their girl would never be found if all they did was doze like dogs around the muhtar’s office. They owed it to themselves to go and see the imam, just this once.’
‘And what did my uncle say to that?’
‘Well what do you think? He blew his fuse!’
Ramazan sat down on a drum of sunflower oil to gaze at the beams on the ceiling.
‘Why don’t we go instead?’
‘Go where?’
‘To the imam.’
Rıza’s eyes went as red as two grapes as he turned away to take a deep breath.
‘We can’t,’ he said, after taking a large mouthful of rakı. ‘Don’t you understand? It has to be the guardians of the lost person that go to the imam. Her father should go, or her mother . . . When the imam fills his bowl with holy water and looks at it in the mirror, they’ll be able to see where she’s hiding . . . If this was as easy as you seem to think, don’t you think I wouldn’t have done it by now?’
‘All right, so what do we do?’ said Ramazan, biting his lip.
Rıza took another gulp of rakı.
‘There’s no other way. We have to convince Reşit,’ he murmured, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘I’ve already told him so. I’ve told him the time has come for him to see what the imam can do.’
Shadowless Page 11
