İrfan’s mother performed the namaz and prayed without fail, visited her neighbors frequently, always listened to the evening news, never missed her son’s programs, and accepted congratulations from her acquaintances with embarrassment. She shopped at the local street market, bargained with the vendors—a longtime habit of her frugal life—and invariably complained about the high prices. Like most elderly women of the Mediterranean, who receive little medical support or advice during menopause and have no idea of bone loss or the correct calcium intake, she had ended up with bones distorted from lack of proper care. The sight of her bent body, once that of a lissome girl, shoulders bowed and hips distorted, making it difficult for her to walk, grieved the professor deeply.
Inhaling the scent of his old home, he realized that it had been a long time since his last visit. How strange to think that this modest apartment, the down payment on which had come from his father’s retirement bonus, the monthly installments for which had been paid by his father for the rest of his life, had once been the center of İrfan’s world. Here he used to read his books and daydream endlessly of what the future might hold. He had not truly appreciated all the precious gifts of his adolescent years: the soft-porn magazines that had aroused his first sexual awakenings, the secondhand bicycle his father had bought him, the tires of which had forever needed mending, the ferries from which he used to jump before they were fully docked, his flirtations with girls on summer evenings, the fresh mussels fried and eaten on the beach, the fairground he had sneaked into without paying, the harmless jokes played on people on the street, the buses he had pinched rides on, and the love affairs he had thought would last forever.
His father’s railroad uniform was still hanging in the creaky old closet. During his early childhood, when the family had lived in lodgings for railway personnel, İrfan regarded his father as very handsome in his brown uniform and gold-braided cap. As the years went by and İrfan saw how miserable a life of poverty made his father, the impression changed to one of a lean man with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and trembling lips. Life was hard on some, and İrfan had experienced many of its difficulties in his childhood. He had never felt at ease around wealthy kids at school and, even as an adult, still felt shy in the company of the rich.
People who were born into wealthy families and never experienced money problems were different from those who acquired money later in life. İrfan could immediately tell whether or not someone had grown up in poverty. Perhaps it marked one for life as it had done him. Aysel was a good example of someone born rich. Without the slightest discomfort, she could say to a friend, “I don’t have a dime on me; you pay the bill!” İrfan would be ashamed to say such a thing.
As a child, the brand-new shoes of the wealthy children dazzled him, and he did everything to hide his own shabby ones. Maybe that was the reason he had filled his closet with so many pairs of shoes once he started earning good money. Yet, on this trip, he was wearing an ordinary pair of trainers.
There were times in his youth when İrfan had seen his father in his wrinkled railroad uniform as a tired, distraught, and defeated man, especially when he compared him to the rich businessmen who were the fathers of his friends. Filled with anger, he would repeat to himself that he had not chosen this man as his father. He set himself a single goal—not to be like his father.
Despite his vow, İrfan realized he missed his father deeply. On that April evening, filled with the scent of an Aegean spring, and the smell of fried squash, which reminded him of summer, he felt sharp pain when he remembered his past efforts to avoid meeting the old man. After leaving Izmir, he had not seen his father again, nor given him the least opportunity to share or to take pride in his success.
He had not invited his parents to Istanbul for his magnificent wedding reception, nor even informed them about the wedding. He could not introduce his pitiable father and humble mother to Aysel’s rich and successful family of shipowners. They would not fit into his circle of businesspeople, politicians, and media personalities. Aysel, herself, had encouraged İrfan to invite his parents, whom she had not met, saying that poverty was not something to be ashamed of. Besides, it would be fun to have a few “genuine” people at the event. It was all a game for Aysel; she could never understand how deep his insecurities ran.
İrfan had not visited his father when, reduced to mere skin and bones, he lay dying of stomach cancer, nor even attended his funeral five years ago. Now, he would never see him again. The reasons seemed totally incomprehensible to him now and, what made it worse, was that his mother had never uttered a word of reproach for his failure either to invite them to his wedding or to attend his father’s funeral.
İrfan’s mother, talking nonstop, was preparing food for him in the kitchen. She was so proud of him. Everyone in the neighborhood congratulated her on being the mother of a professor who appeared on television, and this made her feel very respected. Of course, her main concern was that İrfan, as well as his sister, Emel, were happy and healthy. She was thankful that both of them had gone to the university and were happily married. Emel had a good life in Ankara, where İrfan’s mother spent a month every winter. For some time, she had taken care of Emel’s second child, Ebru—such a cute little girl. İrfan would love her. İsmail, her older brother, was jealous, of course. When they were children, İrfan had been jealous of his sister, too. After Emel came home from the hospital, six-year-old İrfan had hidden under his bed for days, saying that he would not come out until his parents sent away that ugly baby. Laughing at the thought of it, she seemed to have returned to the days when her husband was still alive and all her happiness had been bound up in him and their two children.
Watching his mother’s glowing face, İrfan thought, “Ah, mother! Nothing is as you think it is. Your beloved son, so admired by the grocer, is in deep trouble. He will either lose his mind or kill himself. As for your daughter, she knows that her husband has a lover, but she has chosen to shut her eyes to the affair and let her life slip away as she shoulders the responsibilities of two kids and a job. Your son-in-law, a general manager in the Ministry of Public Works, of which you are so proud, lives on bribes. He squanders money on a sixteen-year-old manicurist called Zeliha. You don’t know that Emel calls me every now and then, crying that she cannot go on living like this and threatening to end her life. I tell her to be patient. After all, everyone has a lover nowadays. Before she puts the phone down on me, her elder brother whom she thinks a fool, I tell her to go along with the times and find a lover herself. Later, when I reflect that Ankara is not like Istanbul, I feel some regret.”
İrfan started talking to his mother about the old days. “Let her be happy for a while,” he thought, “and imagine that she is doing me a favor by cooking my favorite dishes.” Soon, however, his mind drifted away to Aysel. What was she doing now?
She must have come home and taken a shower. She might have been curious about the whereabouts of her husband but had probably not dwelt on it. How long would it take her to see his e-mail message? As it grew late, would she panic and call some friends or even the police before reading it? Whatever the case, she would eventually read the message, and anguish would replace worry.
İrfan began to feel uneasy, yet he reminded himself of his promise to be thick-skinned. For some things life was too short, but it was certainly too long to worry much about a faithless husband. He had no doubt that Aysel would soon forget him and get on with her life. Now was not the time to let sentiment overcome him if he were to be true to his resolution.
Later in the evening when he was alone, İrfan took an old pair of scissors from his mother’s sewing box and cut up his credit cards. Now, he had no personal documents other than his passport, with its U.S. and other visas. He felt relieved, free of all bonds and elated by the lightness of his being.
Now he was sailing with Hidayet as the small boat glided silently across the still, mirrorlike waters of the Aegean. The white sail billowed gently in the breeze, like a cloak blown b
y the wind. It resembled a ghost from some mythological story of the Aegean.
THE HERO IN TOWN
One day while listening to music on the static-filled radio at the military post, Selahattin told Cemal the story of a young musician named Halil, who was recognized as the best kanun player in Istanbul. When Halil was a child, his father used to tie iron weights to his wrists and force him to play the kanun, a stringed instrument placed on the knees and plucked by means of plectra on each finger. At first, the boy could barely move his small hands over the strings, but he soon learned to play faster. For years, his father made him use the weights. When Halil was a teenager, his father finally allowed him to play without them. The boy’s hands flew over the kanun, and up to that time, no one had surpassed him in talent or art.
On the bus going home to his village, Cemal felt as if he had cast off his own iron weights, which he had carried for two long years. He did not know what to do with his hands now they were free. Accustomed to the roughness of his uniform and the weight of water-soaked boots and a cumbersome cartridge belt, he felt naked without them. His arms and hands were so light now, he no longer had a gun, hand grenades, or wireless set to carry.
Cemal felt defenseless, confused, and a little frightened. If the PKK stopped the bus, they would surely recognize that he was a soldier, even without looking at his ID. Those who had killed someone could easily recognize another like them even among a thousand people, and they would take him off the bus and execute him immediately. After surviving the dangers of the mountains, it would be ignominious to be hauled out of the vehicle and shot by the roadside. The army usually sent members of special units home by plane, but since Cemal lived so near, he had been given a bus ticket.
The best day of his military service had come. Cemal had been discharged and was free to go home, yet he had an unpleasant feeling that something was wrong or soon would be.
Plans he had made for his return to civilian life had kept him awake on many nights, but now they were buried in a thick black mist. The people in the bus looked odd to Cemal. The driver wearing sunglasses, his assistant sprinkling cologne on the passengers’ hands, those who got on the bus and off it; all belonged to a strange and different world. Cemal felt lost. By chance, the adjacent seat was empty so he could stretch out his long legs, but he found it impossible to relax. He was in readiness at any minute to take shelter behind his seat if he heard a suspicious sound. After a while, he drowsed off, still feeling tense. At one point, when the driver’s assistant softly touched his arm to wake him, he sprang up to stand to attention in the center of the bus, mistaking the boy for his sergeant calling him for guard duty. The other passengers began to eye him distrustfully.
When awake, Cemal fixed his eyes on the road ahead, looking for signs of danger, especially at the bends along the road and at gas stations. He was not even carrying a knife. How could he be so defenseless, so vulnerable in this unfamiliar place and among these strangers?
When the bus stopped at a rest facility, he went to the men’s room and washed his hands and face. The grimness of his face shocked him when he looked in the mirror. That bony, sunburned visage framed with closely cropped hair could not be his. Suddenly, a man pushed him aside, grumbling, “Come on, leave off looking at yourself, man, the bus is about to leave.”
Without looking to see whether the man was young or old, weak or strong, Cemal whirled around and threw him to the ground. There was not a sound to be heard as, stunned, the people looked at the man being helped back onto his feet. Then workers from the restaurant and gas station rushed in to break the tension. Cemal watched as in a dream while, in answer to their questions, the people there explained what had happened. “OK! OK!” one said. “It’s all right. The young man’s a soldier. Come, let’s go.”
Someone patted Cemal on the shoulder, and he flinched but restrained himself from further reaction. Afterward in the restaurant, however, everyone avoided his gaze, and he ate at a small table, alone.
When the bus finally arrived at its destination, the noise and bustle of the terminus dazed Cemal. His head ached from the sounds of the call to prayer, the wail of music, and the shouts of the street vendors selling sesame rolls, grilled sheep’s intestines, and meatball sandwiches. He felt as if danger might come from any direction. Once, when a car’s exhaust pipe exploded, he threw himself to the ground. Eventually, he found a minibus that was about to depart for his village. The vehicle was not crowded, and no one seemed to recognize him, so he was able to sleep for the entire journey.
When Cemal arrived home, Döne opened the door and let out a scream of surprise. All the women of the house came running. Upon seeing him, Cemal’s mother wept and thanked God for sending her son back safe and sound. Many boys had returned home in a coffin, or missing a leg, an arm, or an eye.
The women immediately sent word to Cemal’s father and his uncle. They came in haste. When Cemal saw his father, he grasped his hand and kissed it. The old man hugged him warmly. “May God bless you, my boy,” he said. “You fought like a hero and defended your country. Thank God you were spared.” Cemal was pleased to hear his father’s words and to see the way he looked at him.
The next day when he went out, everyone in the village greeted him warmly. Cemal felt a rush of pride. He was their latest hero. Lean and sinewy, he bore the expression of a mature, experienced man and looked very different from the youth they had sent off to be a soldier. In spite of this, he was still their Cemal, and they sunned themselves in his reflected glory.
Turks and Kurds lived together in the village and had intermarried, so it was not easy to tell them apart. Men who completed their service in the Turkish army were welcomed back as heroes, and everyone wept at the funerals of those who died in combat. The families of boys like Memo, who joined the PKK, were insulted publicly but often supported secretly. When Cemal saw Rıza Efendi, Memo’s father, in front of the coffeehouse, he lowered his eyes. “Welcome, our Cemal,” the old man said. “God spared you for us.” Rıza Efendi’s words concealed a question, but Cemal pretended not to understand and walked hurriedly away.
The only direct question about Memo came from Gülizar, the midwife who had helped at the birth of both Cemal and Memo. Cemal told her that he had not set eyes on Memo and did not know whether he was alive or dead.
After a few days, the excitement and warmth of the homecoming vanished. It soon became clear, first to his family, then to the whole village, that Cemal had changed. He hardly touched the food prepared especially for him, not even his favorite dish cooked for him by his aunt. He had become accustomed to being in the mountains and preferred to lie wrapped in a thick blanket on the stones in the courtyard, or in a corner of the garden, rather than on the soft mattress his mother prepared for him. Every day, he woke up at the first light of day, and the slightest sound—the flip-flop of a slipper, a cough, or the creak of a door—caused him to jump up in terror. One morning, Cemal’s mother went to the coop to pick out a chicken to cook that day. Suddenly, Cemal grabbed the chicken from her hands, saying, “I’ll do it,” and ripped off the creature’s head with one twist of his hands while his mother looked on in consternation.
When Cemal noticed that Meryem was not around, his mother told him she was guilty of a grave sin and had been locked up in the barn. He shrugged his shoulders and asked no further questions.
Most days, Cemal walked up and down the garden for hours or strolled under the poplars, gazing up at the sky. His mother was worried, but there was no use trying to discuss Cemal’s behavior with her husband, because the old man spent all his time chanting with his disciples.
The sheikh wanted his son to participate in the religious rites, too. Cemal went to the hut, chanted repetitively to the point of ecstasy, then lost consciousness. The rituals did not touch him, and he promised himself that he would not come again. He scolded himself for such thoughts, but the whole thing seemed nonsensical. His heart was like a dry twig with no feeling in it for such devotions.
&
nbsp; Cemal often withdrew to his room with paper and pen bought from the village shop to write letters to friends he had made while on military service. Most of these consisted of accustomed formulas and generalities and did not include any personal details. Only those to Selahattin were rich with information.
At night when he lay down in the courtyard, Cemal barely spared a thought for Meryem in the nearby barn. Most of his memories of that thin, weak girl who, in his childhood, had always been underfoot, had vanished. Meryem was a stranger now, and Cemal cared neither to inquire about her faults nor to ask why she had been locked up in the barn.
Then one night in the garden, half-asleep under his rough blanket, he heard the muffled sound of crying coming from the barn. For the first time, he began to wonder about the little girl in the dark barn and the reason for her misery and tears.
LAST FAREWELLS
Meryem heard the door of her prison creak and a tall figure enter the barn. It was her cousin Cemal. “Meryem?” he called out, but she was not able to reply. Her throat was too hoarse for her to speak a word, although she tried.
Cemal called her again, only to be met once more with silence. Then he stepped forward, took her hand, and gently led her outside. The courtyard was dark and deserted. Everyone in the house was asleep. Cemal opened both sides of the main gate, which was used for the sheep and cows each evening and the laden carts at harvesttime. For some reason, he did not open the smaller door in the gate, through which people generally entered or left the courtyard.
Cemal led Meryem out. After so many days in the barn, Meryem heard a cock crow. “Listen, Cemal, a rooster is crowing,” she said.
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