Bliss: A Novel

by O. Z. Livaneli

  Just at this point in the story, Cemal, like all the other young men in the village, would laugh uproariously, so Hasan’s answer to his wife’s question remained a mystery. Although the story, which was repeated almost every day, always ended there, Cemal let his thoughts run free, and he imagined different endings, especially at night in his dreams. He was never able to visualize the innocent bride’s face. All he could picture was a rather light complexion, but that in itself was often enough to make him resort to devilish pastimes.

  In his bed at the outpost, Cemal let go of the warm vision of the innocent bride with difficulty. Feeling the sticky wetness on his sheets, he hesitated to move but lay there, wrapped in shame. The room was dimly illuminated by a single bulb, and the snores of the soldiers mixed with the crackling of the stove. The guard on duty, trying not to wake the sleeping soldiers, had opened the metal door to feed the stove by adding a few pieces of the low-grade coal he had managed to separate from the conglomerated mass.

  A hollow feeling began to spread through Cemal’s stomach. He enjoyed dreaming of the innocent bride and carrying the pleasurable feelings she aroused in him to their logical end, but he hated the consequences. He had to get up and cleanse himself. After plunging himself so deep in sin, he could only purify himself by ritually washing every part of his body, from top to toe.

  Cemal glanced at the plastic watch on his wrist. It was nearly 2:00 A.M. Since his guard duty began in an hour, he would have no time for further rest after washing himself. If he allowed himself to snooze for five minutes, it would be more difficult to wake up again, but it was more appealing to snuggle back under the comfortable quilt and lose himself once more in thoughts of the innocent bride and her honey-colored skin. In any case, at three o’clock the sergeant would come to rouse him by pounding him on the shoulder and twisting his arm as if to break it. Perhaps he could find time to wash after his guard duty.

  Just as he was beginning to relax, Cemal remembered his father. He could almost see the old man’s disapproving gaze, his eyes flashing beneath his turban, his hand angrily plucking a string of prayer beads.

  Cemal shuddered, chilled by the same fear, familiar since boyhood, and roused himself from sleep. He had almost yielded to temptation and let the Devil get the better of him again. Not only had he dreamed of the innocent bride, but he had also dared to think of going back to sleep without performing the ritual ablution. He had come within inches of opening the gates of Hell. Fortunately, the thought of his father had served as a warning, and he remembered the old man’s words: “After being tricked by the Devil, one must perform the required ablutions and recite two prayers, asking for God’s mercy. If not … God forbid…”

  The long and descriptive list of the torments of Hell that would follow “God forbid” turned Cemal’s blood cold. He did not have to experience those tortures to understand the deceptive and destructive ways of that creature called woman. Listening to his father’s words was enough to realize how Satan used those frail creatures to ruin the world.

  Something stirred in the depths of Cemal’s heart, whispering that he could beat the odds—he could postpone the frigid shower until morning.

  Yet there were no guarantees that he would be alive then. What if the outpost were attacked before dawn? Maybe a bullet from a Kalashnikov would smash his head to pieces while he was standing guard. Many of his friends had lost their lives in such raids. Just a week ago, Salih had been killed. No matter how strong the urge to remain in bed might be, Cemal’s fear of leaving this world unclean was more powerful.

  He sat up. As his bunk was the top one, Cemal could make out the motionless forms of his sleeping comrades in the dim light. Some appeared almost lifeless. Others lay on their sides, or openmouthed on their backs—dreaming, mumbling, and filling the room with the sound of snores and grinding teeth.

  The coarse khaki uniforms of the soldiers, worn for many days outside in freezing weather, now hung around the stove to dry, steaming and filling the room with a sour smell. It was impossible to dry wet laundry outside. It immediately stiffened in the icy cold. Bedsheets would become rigid, stretched like sailcloth over the lonely Gabar Mountains. So the soldiers used to wrap the wet sheets around their bodies to dry them. As for their woolen socks, faded from the slush that oozed through their leaking boots, they stuck them under their undershirts when they went to sleep. In the morning, the socks were always dry.

  Cemal jumped down from the bunk bed, his bare feet feeling for the familiar hardness of his half boots. It was not necessary for him to look under the bed to find them. His feet found them by instinct. Those heavy leather boots, hard as tree bark from absorbing water and drying out over and over again, were an immutable part of a soldier’s life. The men had grown accustomed to the icy cold that crept in slowly through the thick leather, numbing their feet and legs. The intense pain of thawing out later by the stove was more difficult to bear. Their PKK opponents did not have combat boots but wore cheap, thin sneakers. The soldiers had noticed that all the guerrillas they killed in action wore the same light sports shoes, which offered mobility on the rough mountain terrain yet provided scant protection from the frost. As life rolled on against the odds, such details seemed more important than killing or being killed.

  Although nothing could have easily awoken the twenty weary young men in the room, Cemal moved as quietly as possible. He could not help wondering which of them would live through the day and which might die. Tomorrow evening some of the beds might be empty, their present occupants lying bloody in the snow, cut down by a bullet, never to rise again, or blown to pieces by a mine.

  While Cemal tied his bootlaces, the soldier on duty stared at him inquisitively from his place by the stove.

  “I’ve got diarrhea,” Cemal said. The soldiers often suffered from this ailment, caused either by fatigue or the water they drank, and it was a better excuse to go out than to say he had to shower.

  Cemal threw on his army jacket and left the room in his undershirt and long underwear, his boots rough on his naked feet. He heard the wind howling outside, sweeping through the valleys and around the snowy peaks, as if playing a piece of background music belonging to a merciless world. When Cemal had first arrived here, this sound had awed him, but now it seemed natural to his ear. In two years he had become a hardened commando, familiar with these harsh mountains.

  The frigid air of the corridor cut Cemal’s skin like a razor blade. He hurried to the lavatory. He was still in the main building but the warmth of the stove had no effect here, and the corridor and bathroom were as cold as the air on the mountain outside. Shivering uncontrollably, he took off his underwear and upended the half-frozen water barrel over his head. He almost screamed, feeling as though his heart had suddenly become ice, but biting his lip, he managed to control himself. Steam rose from his body. With chattering teeth he washed himself scrupulously all over, especially the part that had given way to temptation. No part of his body should remain untouched by water. His teeth chattered, but his conscience was clear. He had not disobeyed the precepts of his terrible, honored, and respected father; he had eschewed sin and felt the satisfaction of doing what was right according to the laws of Islam. He had no doubt that his father was a hallowed saint: Following his instructions was a sure path to happiness in both this world and the next.

  Cemal dried himself with the small towel he had brought with him and put on his clothes and boots. He returned to the sleeping quarters and was enveloped by a heavenly warmth as soon as he opened the door. The guard by the stove smiled, noticing Cemal’s wet hair, but said nothing. It happened to all of them.

  Cemal laid the wet towel on his pillow and climbed into bed, but he could not go back to sleep. He remembered the three guerrillas they had killed the day before, Kurdish youths in frayed shirts, baggy trousers, and sneakers, insufficient clothing for these mountains. Big holes yawned open where their faces should have been—the work of G3 bullets. Could one have come from his own rifle? In a skirmish, e
ach side usually fired indiscriminately for as long as possible, and one could never know from whose rifle the deadly bullet had come. If you actually took aim, you might know whom you brought down, but Cemal had not experienced that yet.

  He had spent two years of his life in these vast, empty mountains that had become the measure of a soldier’s courage as well as his cowardice. At the end of a long climb, when they stood bathed in sweat on the peak of the mountain, they felt they were the lords of the terrain—the silvery rivers and emerald green valleys of summer that turned white with frost in winter. Heavily armed, and in the company of bosom comrades, they felt immune to death. Patrolling the slopes, they surveyed the land below like eagles, and their gaze detected even the slightest movement. They discovered the euphoria of realizing the might of being able to destroy at will. Then they felt like gods, and their heads touched the sky.

  Yet the mountains were not always so generous. Sometimes while walking over open ground, the soldiers would come under fire from a distant hill, and as the bullets whistled overhead, fear clenched their hearts—a fear like no other. Inches away from a bullet between the eyes or in the brain, they hung in the balance between life and death. A solitary PKK sharpshooter could pin down a whole unit and inflict serious damage. Armed with sniper’s rifles, the guerrillas targeted officers. Sometimes a group of ten or fifteen would attack larger units with bazookas, hand grenades, and Kalashnikov rifles. On the peaks, the commandos were masters, below the summits, the prey.

  The sense of superiority felt on the mountaintops did not last, especially when the soldiers had to remain in the open for many days. Rain and snow soaked them to the skin, and they forgot how it felt to be dry. Their wet clothing froze at night, adding to the torment. At such times, the soldiers thought the rain would never stop, and they imagined a life wrapped in nylon but forever soaked to the skin. Even worse was when the whiz of bullets was mixed with the sound of the rain.

  Cemal, like many of his comrades, carried a plastic bag when he was out on an operation. He did not want to relive the nightmare he had been through with Abdullah.

  Abdullah, a native of the city of Niğde, was a bright young man who liked to laugh and amuse his comrades with endless jokes. One late afternoon, three months before his discharge, their unit had been out on patrol. The soldiers knew that land mines lay in the snow under their feet, but they could only push forward and take their chances. It was difficult enough to recognize mines in daylight, let alone in the slowly descending darkness. Each step they took might send them to their death, and each time nothing happened, they breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

  No sound except the crunch of boots on snow broke the silence until a thundering explosion shook the earth to its core. Instinctively, the soldiers threw themselves to the ground. As they did so, they saw Abdullah go flying through the air; he had trodden on a mine.

  Cemal was closest to him. Oblivious to the fact that he could set off another mine, he crawled on his belly toward his wounded comrade. He did not look good. Cemal grabbed him, trying to hold his head in his lap.

  “My eye!” Abdullah screamed, in a state of shock. “Something’s in my eye! Oh, how it hurts!”

  His face was a horrid sight, drenched in blood, but Cemal forced himself to grip his head and look at his eyes. An empty socket gaped where the left one had been. Abdullah still moaned in a voice that was faintly human, “It hurts, it hurts.”

  The leader of the group and the other soldiers now reached them, and Cemal heard the captain shouting furiously over the radio trying to reach the operator, “Hawk 3, Hawk 3, there’s a man here seriously wounded. Send a helicopter!”

  A voice crackled on the other side. Darkness was falling. It was too dangerous to fly. They would have to hold on till dawn. The voice on the wireless was so calm, as if unconscious of the life draining away there on the snow.

  Blood poured from the hole in Abdullah’s face. Cemal had no idea what to do. Should he plug it with a rag? All he knew was that his comrade could not last much longer. Even if the chopper came right away, he might not live.

  The young captain’s voice was hoarse as he continued to plead, trying to convince the other side. “I beg you, please, come! He can’t last till morning. Please save our brave comrade. It’s not dark yet.” He continued to give the coordinates.

  The radio was silent.

  Cemal was looking at the bloody stump where Abdullah’s foot had been. As he tried to subdue the rising fear and panic spreading through his body, he saw the severed limb a short distance away. Like some alien object, the shattered leg and ripped boot lay together in a pool of blood. Cemal’s only comfort was that Abdullah was now unconscious, overcome by the pain.

  Captain and soldiers gave each other measuring looks as they wondered what could be done. Suddenly, as if in answer to a prayer, the rumble of an engine and the whir of propeller blades broke the stillness. The soldiers looked up, and a helicopter appeared over the ridge of the nearby hill. They began waving frantically, and the chopper slowly descended, stirring up a flurry of snow.

  The soldiers knew the helicopter would not land, but hang a few feet above the ground, and they would have to hurl Abdullah through the open door. PKK guerrillas might see the chopper, open fire, and kill the pilot. The army could not afford the negative propaganda of losing a Black Hawk for the sake of a single wounded private. The medics on board were shouting for them to hurry up. The helicopter hovered, scattering snow, as the team on board shouted to them to hurry, though their exact words were drowned by the clatter of the engine.

  A few soldiers picked Abdullah up from Cemal’s lap and carried him through the blinding swirl of snow to the helicopter. Swinging the limp body back and forth, they threw it toward the door. The medics leaned out to grab the boy, but he slipped through their hands and plummeted back into the snow. Meanwhile, Cemal had picked up Abdullah’s foot, still warm, and flung it into the chopper. Maybe it could be sewn on at the hospital.

  The soldiers lifted Abdullah once more and pitched him toward the helicopter, but he landed on the ground again. The third attempt was successful, and the chopper rose into the air, disappearing over the ridgeline even as the body was still being pulled on board.

  Cemal had thrown Abdullah’s foot into the helicopter instinctively. From that day on, he began to carry a plastic bag on patrol with him. If another comrade stepped on a mine, he would use it to collect the pieces. And he knew that the other soldiers were prepared to do the same.

  In the evenings, over their meals of canned food, tea, and a few carefully concealed cigarettes, they talked together, often sharing their deepest secrets. Perhaps, the following day, they would pick up the torn limb of one to whom they had revealed their intimate thoughts the night before and stuff it into such a bag.

  Relaxing in his bunk after having washed himself so thoroughly, Cemal remembered a voice he had heard now and then while listening to PKK guerrillas on the wireless. It was a voice he recognized. Sometimes it made a direct appeal: “Soldiers of the Turkish Republic, surrender before it’s too late. Save yourselves. Tie up your commander and bring him to us. Or else you won’t live through the night.”

  Upon hearing this, the newest of the reserve officers would grab the radio, and shout back, “You son of a bitch, come and do it yourself, if you’ve got the balls!”

  The laugh, which would then crackle back from the other side, caused Cemal to shudder. It was a laugh he knew well. Memo … his childhood friend, his buddy, his brother, his confidant, Memo. Cemal recognized Memo’s laughter. During the long summer days in their village, Cemal and Memo used to lie down on the meadow and watch the clouds move slowly in the blue sky. As they dreamed of their future, a future they hoped to share, the thought that they would become the worst of enemies one day had not once crossed their minds. How could they have believed it! Yet, now, one was a private, fighting in the Turkish army, and the other, a guerrilla in the Kurdish separatist movement. As two old friends, now the
y were fighting against one another, hoping to kill the other. This was a fratricidal fight that had been going on for more than fifteen years. A fight that had cost the lives of more than thirty thousand people, both Turks and Kurds … Some of the young men from Eastern Anatolia who had joined the army to do their military service had ended up on the mountains like Cemal, and others, like Memo, had joined the Kurdish separatist guerrillas, who fought against the Turkish soldiers.

  As Cemal listened to Memo’s husky voice on the wireless, he was not sure whether he would be able to take aim at Memo and kill him if they ever met on these mountains.

  ILL-STARRED GIRLS SUFFER

  On the day on which it seemed Meryem’s mother had become pregnant, she had dreamed of the Virgin Mary. Candle in hand, the Virgin approached her and said that she would give birth to a girl but would then pass away, leaving her daughter behind.

  As Meryem’s aunt later told the story, her sister had woken up in terror and insisted that she interpret the dream immediately. She had refused and advised her not to talk about the vision before morning since it could bring bad luck.

  Meryem’s mother did not return to her husband’s bed that night. She was still trembling from the dream and needed her sister’s comforting warmth. Hugging her twin, she fell asleep in her arms.

  As soon as the first light of day began to enter the room, she woke her sister, and pleaded, “Now tell me what it meant.”

  Meryem’s aunt, who had a talent for interpreting dreams in a positive way, replied soothingly, “I think Mother Mary wants you to name your daughter after her.”

  “What about passing away and leaving the child?”

  “No one lives forever. Why should you be different? We’ll all die one day. Even Mother Mary passed away.”

  When Meryem’s mother died in childbirth, the family remembered the saint’s wishes and named Meryem accordingly.