Bliss: A Novel

by O. Z. Livaneli

  Cemal hoped that Memo and the rest of the guerrillas would soon fall into the ambush and all die at the same instant. Memo was no longer a friend but a ruthless, bloodthirsty enemy intent only on slaughtering Cemal and his comrades. Cemal hated Memo more than any other terrorist and wanted him punished. When he had told Selahattin this, he had said it was Cemal’s own fear of death that made him think that way. Cemal thought he had become immune to fear, yet he obviously still suffered from it. It was hard to forget the images of comrades lying dead, with a bullet between the eyes or torn to pieces by a land mine.

  Cemal remembered how he and Memo used to hunt partridges together. Memo was a crack shot, and he carried his rifle differently from the others, as if it were an extension of his body. He could bring the gun effortlessly to his shoulder and hit the target without waiting to take aim.

  Cemal hated Memo with a hatred he felt for no one else. He was sure that Memo’s rifle was now pointing at him and his comrades. At moments like this, he always sensed the unseen barrel. Memo must be on the hilltop, ready to pick them off one by one, like partridges.

  The fear of death was always present among the soldiers. The possibility of a rocket attack hung over them whenever they hastily ate their two hundred grams of canned rations or tried to drink a cup of half-frozen water. When, constipated from eating dry food for days on end, they bent down to defecate bloody stools, they could feel the enemy breathing behind them. When they occasionally lit a small fire to soften up their bowels with some hot food, the thin smoke took the form of death. Death haunted them even as they stretched out on their thin mattresses on the frigid ground. In these hostile mountains, they could not help wondering if they would survive the next minute.

  Some of the soldiers broke under the strain and rushed into the fray, willing to die. Such boys would say, “Going home in a flag-draped coffin now is better than waiting for death in these mountains.”

  Cemal knew that Memo was ready to kill him. They had spent many nights at each other’s homes, sharing meals and talking endlessly. Yet, now, Memo wanted to send him to his grave. Cemal’s only escape from his rage was to imagine killing Memo first. It would be just punishment. Memo would not even have time to reach for his rifle. “Bastard!” hissed Cemal. “Murderer, traitor, bastard!”

  Hours passed, but there was no sign of the PKK. No one could sleep during an ambush; the soldiers had to be on the alert every second. They could not even whisper. Cemal knew that each of his comrades was lost in his own daydreams.

  Suddenly, Cemal saw Memo’s face in front of him. His heart pounded. He realized his mind was wandering between sleep and wakefulness. Tonight no soldier could afford to make any mistakes, and he tried to get hold of himself, but soon he felt drowsy again.

  Cemal recalled the games he and Memo used to play in the village, the taunts they threw at each other during soccer matches, the disputed goals, and the fights that ensued. Dripping with sweat, they would shout curses at one another, but their anger was soon dissipated.

  Once they played together against a neighboring village. To guarantee victory, Cemal visited a maker of charms and potions before the match and had him prepare a talisman. He buried the charm in front of their goalpost so no ball would pass through.

  In the first half of the game, the charm seemed to work like magic and even the hardest shots of the opposing team did not find the goal, going wide or rebounding from the goalpost. Cemal’s teammates were so ecstatic that he told them about the talisman until someone remembered they had to change ends for the second half, which meant the charm would then work in their opponents’ favor. How could they shoot against the talisman they had ordered? Their goal would be without its defense. During the second half, the talisman remained true to its promise. Every goal they attempted either went wide or rebounded from the goalpost. The team from the other village won three to one. After the match, Memo shouted at Cemal, “Idiot! If you could think of using a charm, why didn’t you think about having to change ends!”

  Cemal had no answer to these words of truth and kept silent.

  Memo was after him now. It was Memo who was killing his friends: attacking them with rocket fire and murderous bullets; blowing them up by his side with devastating mines; and Memo wanted to kill him, too.

  Icy rainwater oozed down the neck of Cemal’s jacket, but he remained still. Soldiers had to endure everything: rain, cold, pain, fatigue, sickness, coughs, fever; even the lice, whose bites irritated their skin. But in the open, in the freezing rain, they had to endure all this for days at a time.

  Cemal’s thoughts turned to his village, his father, mother, uncle, sisters, Döne, and Meryem. He could see his father, uncle, and himself as they placed a lump of sugar between their teeth in readiness to strain the freshly brewed hot tea through it, and he tried to feel the warmth as he drank it down. He could not. It was as if he had never had a life before he became a soldier; as if he had been born on these mountains. Those hot dreams of the innocent bride, to whom he made love in spite of never having seen her face, and the image of his mortal enemy, Memo, were all that remained from the past. As the vision of his home and family blurred, Memo’s features became crystal clear—his gaunt face, thin moustache, and the sarcastic smile on his crooked mouth.

  And the image of his father, of course, came into his mind. Sometimes it was even as if he heard his voice, giving him advice on how to avoid danger and keep away from sin. His father was a constant teacher, always with him.

  Toward the morning, Cemal could feel that the soldiers were getting restless. In the darkness no eye could penetrate, they strained their ears to hear the footsteps of those who called themselves the “rulers of the mountains and the night.” Cemal knew that the captain was holding his breath though he himself could hear nothing. Then came a sound that was different from that of the drip of melting snow. Faintly, a strange indistinguishable noise came through the dark. Not even sure that it was a sound, the soldiers silently raised their guns. Cemal’s heart felt as if it were no longer pounding in his chest but in his throat. In a little while the sound would come closer, the firing would start, flares would light up the sky, and the machine gun in his hand would spurt forth sudden death.

  “Fire,” shouted the captain, as the indistinct sounds came nearer.

  Every weapon in the company erupted with a deafening retort. Flares did little to illuminate the darkness, and the soldiers fired blindly. It was difficult to know whether there was really anyone there in the darkness, but surely their efforts must show some result.

  Eventually the barrage ceased. Maybe no one had been out there, or maybe several PKK terrorists were lying dead in the dark. They would not know until the first light of day. The soldiers remained in their positions, eyes fixed ahead. The rain had stopped. After the roar of the guns, the silence of the valley was frightening.

  The night was finally over. Rays from the rising sun shot out from behind the mountains, causing Cemal to squint. He could make out the line of the peaks glowing red in the distance. A peculiarly bright star was still blinking in the morning sky. He shivered. It was now light all around, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. The valley was oddly tranquil. Perhaps the shooting had been futile, one or two thought, and began to yawn and stretch their arms. The captain was hesitant. If they really had opened fire on an empty valley, he would look extremely foolish. He commanded his men to stay low, and they waited another hour.

  Suddenly the bright yellow sun rose above the mountaintops.

  The captain stood up and surveyed the terrain through his field glasses. “There’s no one here,” he murmured quietly.

  The next instant he was lying on the ground, blood jetting from his throat, pouring out in crimson waves onto the cold earth. Cemal had never seen anyone bleed so much before. The soldiers were sobbing, “Captain, captain!” while one of them tried to telephone the news. Behind a distant rock, Cemal saw a flash that flared and went out all in a moment. But this was enough for him t
o realize that this was where the sharpshooter who had hit the captain was concealed. They went on the offensive immediately.

  The entire company opened fire at the rock. A storm of bullets battered against the stone; hand grenades flew through the air; the earth erupted in flame and smoke. Cemal was certain that no one could have survived that barrage.

  After the dust had settled, the soldiers advanced cautiously, wriggling over the ground on their stomachs. Another grenade was thrown, and only when all danger seemed to have been averted did they stand up. They found a body behind the rock, but it would have been difficult to say if it was human. The torso was in pieces, the head ripped apart and burned, but Cemal could see it was not Memo. A strange fit of laughter rose within him, and he controlled himself with difficulty. “My nerves must be shot to pieces,” he thought.

  They discovered two more dead guerrillas, but Memo was not among them either. Perhaps he had fled under cover of darkness while those wounded had only been able to take refuge behind the rock. “Cunning, ruthless Memo,” Cemal said to himself. “What a fox you are!” He began to laugh then, softly at first, then louder, rising to a hysterical crescendo that reverberated among the rocks. His behavior would be remembered by his friends for the rest of their lives and used as an example of a person who had been driven crazy by the events of the war. They looked at him in consternation until the sergeant stepped forward and gave him a stinging blow across the face. And another and another as Cemal continued to laugh, the tears running down his face. It took a long time for him to come to his senses and become calm again.

  The team had lost its captain, and Selahattin had been wounded in the leg. Like Cemal, he was almost at the end of his tour of duty. Cemal would be demobilized forty-five days early, since he had not taken any leave. As for Selahattin, he would be hospitalized for the remainder of his service.

  Even in the final days there was no relief. During Cemal’s last week, an unfortunate event occurred. A new, young lieutenant had been assigned to their post. He was inexperienced and nervous. One evening at dusk he saw a figure on a nearby hill and, without hesitation, gave the order to shoot. Actually, even their former captain would have done the same. No one but the PKK came into these far hills, and there in the evening, even a shadow constituted a threat. The soldiers opened fire, and the figure fell.

  When they went to inspect, they found a small boy lying lifeless on the ground. Around him grazed a small flock of sheep and goats, straying here and there without direction. Cemal looked at the bullet-riddled body and remembered a pair of grateful black eyes amidst the flames of a burning village. Cemal imagined the anguish of the crippled old man waiting for the grandson, who would never return.

  “I’m getting soft,” he said to himself. Perhaps it was because his military service was ending that he felt such mixed feelings.

  The hearts of all of them had been coarsened in the months spent on the mountains and had become dead to human feelings. Just like breaking in a new pair of shoes, when the skin becomes inflamed for some days before becoming callused and immune to pain, they had hardened their hearts in order to survive the cruelties of war.

  THE FAMILY HOME

  Sitting alone in the business-class section of Airbus Flight 310 en route to Izmir, İrfan felt as if he was being swept along by the current of a raging river. When the flight attendant inquired what he would like to drink, he asked her for a glass and some ice. Opening the bottle of Royal Salute he had bought at the airport, he poured himself a shot of the tawny whisky and inhaled the rich aroma of cognac, mahogany, morocco leather, and tobacco. “I am being swept away,” he thought, “and I’m dragging all the others after me.”

  The professor always thought in long, complete sentences, as if writing a book or dictating a letter to his secretary. He had developed this habit from writing so many articles, speeches, and television scripts. He felt responsible for organizing his thoughts. As was his custom, he started to take notes on small pieces of paper. “Everybody is being swept away,” he wrote. “All reference points are lost in this society, deprived of its Eastern and Islamic roots and far from being united with Western values. No one is happy. The unwritten rules that keep a society together are nowhere to be found. We are going through a nihilistic period, in which everyone is yearning for a better life, but no one knows what form it should take. There is no prescribed form; therefore, the people have neither a mythology nor an ideal. The torrent is forcing us along. Some try to save themselves by clinging to the branches of the trees that overhang the river. Some grasp the branch of religion, others nationalism, “Kurdism,” or “nihilisim.”

  İrfan poured himself another drink before admonishing himself. “Stop preaching! You’re full of hot air! Get to the point—confess your fears and relax!”

  At that moment, the tall, attractive flight attendant approached İrfan and told him that the pilot would be honored if he would visit the cockpit. İrfan wanted to be alone, but found himself agreeing to accompany her to the cockpit. The pilot must have recognized him from his television program and seized the chance to have a conversation with him.

  As he entered the cockpit, İrfan was struck by its electronic tranquillity. Listening to garbled messages from the flight control towers, comprehensible only to the pilots, they adjusted direction without interrupting their conversation. İrfan reflected on how handsome a uniform made everyone seem; even long-distance bus drivers looked smart in their tailored suits and dark glasses.

  The professor felt a sudden urge to grab the flight instruments, pull down the lever, and send the plane into a nosedive. He would later recall this moment, trying to understand why the fear of dying led him to desire death. It was a fierce impulse. It was not hard to understand how people who suffered vertigo could choose to commit suicide by jumping from a high place.

  Being a man of thought rather than action, İrfan did not allow his feeling to overcome him. He conversed pleasantly with the pilots, even opening the topic of “how Turkey would never solve its problems.” The professor found an opportunity to cut the conversation short, returned to his seat, and gulped down another drink before landing.

  As the plane lost altitude over Adnan Menderes Airport, İrfan thought about the changes Izmir had undergone during the last thirty years. Like him, it had lost its innocence. The Aegean atmosphere was slowly evaporating, causing the city to fade like an old icon from which time has worn away the gilt. The Kurdish war, or “low-intensity skirmish” as the General Staff called it, which had resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands in Eastern Anatolia, had also caused hundreds of thousands of Kurds to migrate to the west. The inhabitants of three thousand devastated villages had flocked to the Mediterranean and Aegean coasts, bringing with them their own culture to mingle with those of Ionia and Mesopotamia.

  At first, İrfan doubted that these villages had really been burned down and depopulated, but later accepted this fact when he saw it mentioned in the supervisory reports of the prime ministry. Unfortunately, the struggle against terrorism was carried out in similar ways all over the world. Although it would have been better had this devastation not taken place, every state had the legitimate right to protect itself against armed rebellion.

  The taxi driver, a skinny youngster with a thin moustache, who was taking him to Karıyaka from the airport, must have come from the east. He thought he recognized İrfan from somewhere and talked to him throughout the entire trip. Had İrfan ridden in his taxi before? Where was the Turkish economy going? Since gasoline was so expensive, he had had LPG fuel installed in his vehicle. Did the professor want a cigarette? Yes, smoking was harmful, but it calmed you down. Perhaps the gentleman would like to listen to music; he had new cassettes and a Pioneer cassette player. They were cool, weren’t they? Suddenly, the small car was transformed into a concert hall, where moaning violins, the percussion of drums and tambourines, as well as the melancholy wail of desert pipes accompanied a popular song of the type known as “arabesque,” played a
t full volume.

  If the professor had felt any peace previously, it disappeared immediately. This urban kitsch music had no harmony, and İrfan felt as though a screwdriver were being slowly ground into his ear. He was not a musicologist, but he was sure that arabesque symbolized the country’s decadence. The music was not genuine like the blues, the fado, the tango, or the rembetiko, all of which expressed a cry of oppression. Arabesque—the music of migration to the big city—was not the outcry of a wounded man but the whimpering of one pretending to be injured. The most famous singers carried diamond-studded Rolexes, drove Mercedes, and wore silk shirts, half-unbuttoned to expose their hairy chests, yet they sang songs of pain, sorrow, and despair. Their music reflected the unreliability of the Middle East. It was a deception, a lie, and an example of how the weak were trampled on as they bowed hypocritically in front of the powerful.

  İrfan was surprised by the change in himself. Just a month ago, he had viewed this music as a colorful part of Turkey’s subculture, even expressing that opinion on the media. What had caused the change, shattering his comfortable life and bringing him to the brink of madness? Fear of death perhaps? İrfan could not pinpoint the answer. He only knew that the music lacked honesty, so unlike the traditional folk songs. The music was getting on his nerves, but İrfan refrained from insulting the young driver and kept quiet, allowing him to enjoy it to the fullest.

  After what seemed an eternity, they finally parked on the narrow road in front of the neglected apartment building where İrfan’s mother lived. He gave the driver a big tip. Maybe the young man would think his generosity was in appreciation of the music and turn up the volume again the next time he picked up a customer.

  The older, lower-middle-class women of the Mediterranean region resemble each other. With her worried eyes, tired face, and weary movement, İrfan’s mother was no exception. Without hiding the apprehension this surprise visit aroused in her, she hugged the man who once had been the center of her existence but now belonged to higher circles. İrfan, in turn, embraced the old woman, who occupied a space in his present life no bigger than her tiny frame, and kissed her on the cheeks.