by Orhan Pamuk
He was twenty-five meters belowground, but through that tube of concrete, the distance seemed magnified. Sometimes, when the glare of the sun blinded me and I anxiously realized that I could no longer make him out at the bottom, I would lean over to take a closer look, dreading the thought that I might accidentally fall in.
Lifting each bucket to the top was even harder than before. The rope wouldn’t stay plumb now, and the swaying bucket would crash against the walls as if buffeted by a mysterious wind. We could not figure out the cause of this swaying. As I had to operate the windlass on my own, I didn’t always notice the bucket’s swinging arcs until Master Mahmut, fearing that it might fall on his head, bellowed up at me from below.
The tinier Master Mahmut grew, farther and farther from the top of the well, the more frequent and the more unduly severe his bellowing seemed. He yelled at me for being too slow to lower the bucket; for taking too long to empty it; and sometimes simply because the dust raised by the bone-dry earth made him lose his temper. My master’s shouts reverberated in the concrete well, eerie echoes of the guilt within me.
I would take refuge in daydreams about the Red-Haired Woman’s gentle smile, her beautiful body, her eagerness in making love. It felt so good to think about her. Should I run to Öngören and visit her on my lunch break?
I was grateful to be up here on the surface of the earth, but in the heat, my job was actually much harder than Master Mahmut’s. With Ali now gone for a while, I had almost gotten used to turning the windlass on my own, but even so, sometimes my strength ran out.
After hoisting the loaded bucket up from the well, I always struggled to set it down properly on the wooden shelf. Ali and I used to take great pains with this. You had to raise the load just a little clear of the shelf while slackening the rope, as when dropping the bucket into the well, but gently pull it toward the shelf instead—a tricky maneuver for one man.
The bucket often tilted slightly in the process, causing clumps of sand, mussels, and fossilized snail shells to roll out and fall down the well.
Moments later came the sound of Master Mahmut’s furious snarls from the bottom of the well. How many times did he have to explain how dangerous a force even little shells and pebbles gathered when they fell from a great height? They could seriously injure a man and even kill him if they happened to land on his head. That was why he never filled the bucket up to its brim—a precaution which slowed us down.
Hauling the handcart away to unload the dry, dusty sand and stones and mussels from the bottom was an equally arduous task. On the way back, I could always hear Master Mahmut’s indiscriminate, scolding drone. I couldn’t make the words out, but his complaints sounded like the furious utterances of some old shaman or some creature of the underworld, a cross between a giant and a jinni.
With the depth of the well now equal to the height of a ten-story building, it had become impossible to see how far down the bucket had reached. So toward the end of its descent, I would lock the crank in place, calling out to Master Mahmut, and pause until I heard him say, “A little further.” He seemed so small, so helpless, down at the bottom!
We’d been working for about an hour that day when I felt a spell of dizziness. I thought I was going to fall into the well. On my way back from emptying the handcart, I stopped and lay down on the ground. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a minute.
But when I got back to the well, Master Mahmut was already muttering. Sending the empty bucket down did not silence his complaining this time.
“What is it, Master?” I shouted into the well.
“Pull me up!”
“What?”
“I said, pull me up.”
When the bucket got suddenly heavy, I knew he must have stepped into it.
Pulling him up was the hardest part. As I pushed the handle of the windlass with all my remaining strength, my head spinning, I fantasized that Master Mahmut would give up on this well, pay me, and set me free. I would then run straight to the Red-Haired Woman to confess that I was in love with her and ask her to leave Turgay and marry me instead. What would my mother think? The Red-Haired Woman would no doubt be amused at that: “I’m old enough to be your mother!” Maybe I would nap for ten minutes under the walnut tree before my lunch break. I’d read somewhere that when you were really tired, a ten-minute nap could restore you as effectively as hours of sleep. I could visit the Red-Haired Woman after that.
As soon as Master Mahmut’s head appeared at the top of the well, I pulled myself together and tried to hide my exhaustion.
“You’re flagging today, kid,” he said. “Look, I will find this water, and until then, you will do exactly as I say. Don’t slow us down.”
“Understood, Master.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Of course, Master.”
“Where there is civilization, where there are towns and villages, there have to be wells. There can be no civilization without the well, and no well without the welldigger. And there can be no welldigger’s apprentice who doesn’t bow to his master’s will. As soon as the water comes, we’ll be rich. Got it?”
“I’m with you even if we don’t get rich, Master.”
Like a preacher, Master Mahmut then delivered a long sermon on the necessity of vigilance. I wondered: Had all this been on his mind even as he’d watched the Red-Haired Woman at the theater? I listened to Master Mahmut’s words in a daydream, feeling no need to respond. The image of the Red-Haired Woman came to me again. I felt embarrassed.
“Take that sweaty shirt off and put on a fresh one,” said Master Mahmut. “You’re going inside the well. The work is easier down there.”
“All right, Master.”
21
AT THE BOTTOM of the well all I had to do was pick up the spade and fill the bucket with that stinking soil full of mussels, snail shells, and fish bones. The work was much less grueling than what had to be done aboveground. The hard part was being down there, twenty-five meters inside the earth.
As I approached the bottom of the darkening well, one foot inside the empty bucket and both hands wrapped tight around the rope, I saw that the surface of the concrete wall was already marred with cracks, spiderwebs, and mysterious stains. I watched a nervous lizard run up toward the light. Perhaps the underworld was trying to warn us against plunging a concrete tube into its heart. At any moment, there might be an earthquake, and I could be buried here, deep in the ground, forever. Strange, muffled noises came from below.
“Comiiiing!” Master Mahmut shouted into the well whenever the empty bucket was descending.
Every time I looked up, the sight of the opening so terrifyingly small and far away made me want to escape immediately. But Master Mahmut was impatient, so I hurriedly shoveled earth into the bucket and yelled, “Pullll!”
He was much stronger than I was, and it didn’t take him long at all to hoist the bucket on the windlass, lifting it carefully onto the shelf before tipping its contents into the handcart, and return it empty to me.
I watched without moving a muscle, my face turned upward the whole time. As long as I could see Master up there, I didn’t feel alone underground. Every time he moved aside to empty the bucket, a small disk of sky was revealed. How perfectly blue it was! It was remote, like the world at the wrong end of a telescope, but it was beautiful. Until Master Mahmut reappeared, I stood immobile, staring up at the sky at the end of that concrete telescope.
When I finally caught sight of him again, no bigger than an ant, I felt better. When the bucket arrived, I pulled it down and cried out, “Got it!”
But every time Master Mahmut’s infinitesimal form moved out of sight again I was gripped by fear. What if he should trip? What if something happened to him while I was down here? He might even take his time returning to the well with the handcart just to teach me a lesson. Would he want to punish me if he knew about my night with the Red-Haired Woman?
It took about a dozen strokes of the spade to fill the bucket, and when
I got carried away, digging deeper into the earth with the pickax, I’d find myself blinded by the dust and darkness so that everything seemed even blacker than before. Anyone could see this sandy soil was too soft and pale. There was obviously no water here. All this anxiety, and all this time—it was all for nothing!
The moment I was out of this well, I would make straight for Öngören and the Red-Haired Woman. Who cares what Turgay might say. She loves me. I’d tell him everything. He might beat me up; he might even try to kill me. What would the Red-Haired Woman do at the sight of me standing before her in the middle of the day?
With these thoughts I could forget my fear long enough to send up three bucketfuls of earth (yes, I was counting) before I began to panic again. Master Mahmut was taking longer and longer to return to the well, and I kept hearing noises underground.
“Master! Master Mahmut!” I yelled. The blue sky was the size of a coin. Where was Master Mahmut? I started shouting as loud as I could.
Finally, he appeared at the top.
“Master Mahmut, bring me up now!” I called out to him.
But he didn’t reply. He just returned to the windlass and hoisted the loaded bucket up. Had he not heard me? My eyes remained fixed on the top of the well.
Master Mahmut was so far away. I shouted as loud as I could. But as in a dream, my voice never reached him. As soon as he had emptied the earth, he gripped the crank and lowered the empty bucket.
I shouted again, but still he couldn’t hear me.
A long time passed. I pictured Master Mahmut pushing the handcart to the spot where we emptied it; soon he’d be tilting it over to get the sand out; he must be on his way back, I calculated; surely he should be here by now. But Master Mahmut didn’t come. Probably off having a cigarette somewhere.
When he appeared again, I shouted again as loud as I could. But he seemed not to hear. I made my decision: putting one foot into the empty bucket, I held the rope tight and cried, “Pulll!”
I was shuddering as Master Mahmut slowly raised me up to the ground, but I was happy.
“What happened?” he said as I gratefully stepped onto the wooden plank at the top.
“I can’t go down there again, Master Mahmut.”
“That’s for me to say.”
“Of course, Master,” I said.
“Good boy. If you’d been like this since the day we started, maybe we’d have found that water by now.”
“But, Master, back then I didn’t know what I was doing. Is it really my fault the water hasn’t come?”
He raised an eyebrow, arranging his features into a look of suspicion. I could see he didn’t like what I had said. “Master, I will never forget you for as long as I live. Working with you has taught me so much about life. But please, let’s give up on this well now. Here, let me kiss your hand.”
He did not extend his hand. “You will never speak again of giving up without finding water first. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Now lower your master into the well. There’s more than an hour to go until lunchtime. We’ll make it a long break today. You’ll have time to lie down under the walnut tree and take a nice, long nap.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Come on, grab that handle and ease me down.”
I turned the crank and Master Mahmut slowly descended into the well, fast disappearing from sight.
I emptied each load of earth smartly, listened closely for Master Mahmut’s voice, and then heaved at the windlass with all my strength. Sweat rolled down my back, and I nipped into the tent every so often for a sip of water. I slowed down only once to look at a fossilized fish head that had come up with the sand. That delay set Master Mahmut muttering again. In the toughest moments, when I felt I couldn’t go on, a fantasy of the Red-Haired Woman, her breasts, her coppery skin, sustained me.
An inquisitive butterfly with white and yellow spots made its joyful, unhurried way through the grass, by our tent, past the windlass, and onward over the well.
What could this mean? As the eleven-thirty passenger train headed toward Europe on the Istanbul–Edirne line trundled by, I remember taking this as a sign that everything would turn out fine. The train headed in the opposite direction, from Edirne to Istanbul, due to pass by in an hour’s time, would be our signal to break for lunch.
I’ll run to Öngören on my lunch break, I thought. I wanted to ask the Red-Haired Woman about Master Mahmut. I locked the windlass in place to stop the rope from unspooling. As I gripped the handle of the bucket and began to pull it over to the shelf, I heard Master Mahmut bellowing at me once more. My hand was moving skillfully of its own accord, tilting the load gently to rest it on the wooden shelf, when suddenly the bucket came off the hook and fell down the well.
I froze for a split second.
Then I shouted: “Master, Master!”
Only seconds ago, he’d been shouting at me, but in that moment, he had gone quiet.
Then a deep wail of pain came from down below, followed by a resounding silence. I would never forget that wail.
I drew back. There was no more sound from the well, and I couldn’t bring myself to lean over and look down. Maybe it hadn’t been a scream after all, and Master Mahmut had just been swearing.
The whole world now was as quiet as the well itself. My knees were shaking. I couldn’t decide what to do.
A large wasp circled the windlass, looked inside the well, and plunged in.
I ran to the tent. I changed out of my sweat-soaked shirt and trousers. When I realized that my naked body was trembling, I cried a little but soon stopped. Even if I were to tremble in front of the Red-Haired Woman, I would not be embarrassed. She would understand, and she would help. Maybe even Turgay would help. Maybe they’d call for someone from the army garrison or the municipality; maybe the firemen would come.
I was running to Öngören taking shortcuts through the fields. The crickets among the dry grass stopped chirping as I passed. I followed the road in parts before cutting through the fields again. All along the downward slope past the cemetery, a strange instinct had me looking over my shoulder, and far away in the direction of Istanbul, I saw black rain clouds.
If Master Mahmut was injured and bleeding, he needed help fast. But I had no idea whom to call.
When I reached town, I made straight for their house. Some woman I didn’t recognize opened the door of the ground-floor apartment that faced the back. I think this was the signmaker and former Maoist’s wife.
“They’ve left,” she said before I even had the chance to pose a question. The door to the place where I’d slept with my lover for the very first time was shut in my face.
I crossed the square. The Rumelian Coffeehouse was empty, and the post office was full of soldiers making phone calls. On the pavement I saw villagers I’d never seen around at night converging on the town market from nearby settlements.
The tent of the Theater of Morality Tales was gone. At first I could see no trace of what until yesterday had stood in that spot, but then I noticed some discarded ticket stubs and the wooden stakes that had held the tent in place. It was true: they were gone.
I strode quickly out of Öngören without knowing clearly what I was doing. It was as if my reflexes had taken over, and it was someone else who was running, pausing, and trying to find meaning in the clouds gathering in the sky. Sweat poured off my forehead, my neck, and every other part of my body. At night, the trees in the cemetery would ripple in the cool breeze, but now it was hellishly hot and close on the slope that went past the graves. I saw sheep chewing contentedly on the grass between the headstones.
By the time I reached the plateau, I had stopped running and slowed down to a walk. I saw very clearly that whatever I did in the next thirty minutes would affect the rest of my life, but I couldn’t decide what it was that I should do. I couldn’t dwell too much on whether Master Mahmut had fainted, whether he was injured or dead. Perhaps the intense heat was getting to me. The sun was direc
tly overhead, burning the back of my neck and the tip of my nose.
On the grassy shortcut through the last turn in the road, I first heard the rustling and then saw the shell of an agitated tortoise trying to get out of my way. If it had stepped to the left or to the right, away from the narrow path that Master Mahmut and I had trodden on our trips back and forth from town, it could have hidden in the taller grasses by the side. But it couldn’t figure this out and tried instead to outrun me, as if its fate were inescapably tied to the very path I was walking on. Could I be doing the same, trudging fruitlessly down the wrong path while trying to escape my own fate?
When I was a child, there were kids in Beşiktaş who used to flip tortoises over and leave them to dry out and die in the heat. The tortoise retreated into its shell when it saw me; I gently picked it up and released it into the taller grass.
As I approached the well, I tried to breathe more slowly. I wished above all else that I might hear Master Mahmut again, shouting or groaning. I kept telling myself that this was just another of the countless ordinary things that had happened over the past month. The bucket hadn’t fallen, and Master Mahmut was fine. I would raise a bottle of water to my lips and, as I drank, I would hear Master Mahmut’s furious scolding from below.
But there wasn’t a single sound from the well. Nothing but the cicadas made a sound. The silence filled my soul with remorse. I saw two lizards chasing each other on the windlass. I took another step toward the well. But I lost my nerve and stepped back before I could get any closer. It was as if I would go blind if I were to look.
I couldn’t go down into the well on my own anyway. There had to be another person to lower me down. That was why I’d rushed off to Öngören and the Red-Haired Woman. But I’d come back without telling anyone there what had happened. I didn’t know why I had done that. Perhaps I had assumed I wouldn’t find anyone to help anyway, and Master Mahmut would be happier if I ran straight back to his side.
Or perhaps I’d decided that Master Mahmut was dead, and there was no taking back my crime. “O God, please have mercy on me!” I begged. What should I do?
