At the age of seven, he and Hidayet had experienced the terror of circumcision together. After being dressed in festival white clothes and soothed by a thousand promises of entertainment, the shock of seeing the tip of one’s penis being pulled forward from the foreskin, which was then cut with a sharp razor, was nothing in comparison to the pain of dressing the wound afterward. Modern methods had simplified this procedure, but when he was a child, the circumcised organ had been wrapped in gauze. After a while, the blood on the gauze dried hard, and when it was pulled away in order to dust the scar with penicillin, the pain was intense enough to cause a scream. When İrfan saw his penis, bloody, wounded, and purple, he had thought that he would never be able to show it to anyone ever again.
Most Turks believed that circumcision was good for one and promoted cleanliness, but İrfan had a different view. He thought that the dilemma of both worshipping women and being hostile to them at the same time experienced by that species of humanity known as “the Turkish male” was a direct result of the early trauma they experienced at an early age in the ritual of being circumcised.
Many Turkish men believed that circumcision protected them against AIDS. Few took precautions when sleeping with the many Russian girls who first came to towns on the Black Sea coast. Some ridiculous beliefs developed. For example, Black Sea men sometimes squeezed lemon juice between the legs of the Russian girls to disinfect them before making love. Of course, lemon juice could kill AIDS. There was no need for other precautions as long as one had lemons. The men of these regions were not frightened of sexual diseases.
When electricity first came to Anatolian villages, many men who were warned against the danger of live electric wires had mockingly said, “What has a plucky man to fear from a few strands of wire?” Taking hold of the live wires, they had courageously held on as the current raced through them, making their teeth chatter and their bodies vibrate until they became victims of their own foolhardiness. Similarly, for Turkish men to show any fear of AIDS did not suit the image they had of themselves.
After the establishment of the Soviet Union, thousands of White Russians had come to Istanbul; likewise, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, fair-skinned Russian girls flocked to Turkey. After the revolution, gentlemen had become used to drinking yellow vodka and eating chicken kievski at the Rejans Restaurant in Pera in the company of chic ladies with fur collars. They would finish the evening listening to the piano in one of the district’s stylish music halls. The more recent immigrants, slender blond Russian and Ukrainian girls with long legs and transparent skin, had made certain districts of the town their place of business, with the occasional trip to the Aegean or Mediterranean coasts as the sexual companions of Turkish businessmen. In the Black Sea region, the girls had lemon juice squeezed between their legs, but those who went to the Mediterranean were treated to the luxury of a holiday resort. They were luckier—at least those who did not have to share a bed with a short, plump man covered with thick black hair.
Some of the Russians managed to work their way into wealthier, more refined circles. One of İrfan’s friends had told him an interesting story. According to this tale, some businessmen, who regularly vacationed at expensive hotels in Bodrum and Türkbükü with their families, had developed a special form of recreation. When one of them was sunbathing on the beach with his family, a few of his close friends dressed only in their swimsuits would come near the shore in a speedboat and invite him for a tour of the bay. Completely at ease, the man would leave his wife and children on the beach and go off on his own. What could be more innocent than a boat ride with a group of friends dressed in nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks?
But rather than touring the bay, the speedboat would direct its course to a big yacht anchored behind a nearby island. The lovely Russian and Ukrainian girls on board, exclusively selected and brought from Istanbul, were available for ready cash. İrfan’s friend described the transparency of the girls’ complexions by saying that “the redness of a cherry could be seen as it passed down their throats.” The men who enjoyed the company of these girls preferred condoms to lemon juice. After a “tour” of an hour or so, the cheerful group would return to the beach, and the businessman would be reunited with his family—undoubtedly dreaming of the delights to be had on the following day.
After the polygamous Ottoman era, the change to monogamy over the next fifty or sixty years after the establishment of the Turkish Republic had not been easy. After the twenties, Turkish men were pushed to find other options, and, thanks to circumcision and lemon juice, AIDS held no terrors for them. In spite of that, they became a little worried when Western journalists wrote that circumcised men were only a little less prone to catch disease. Did that mean they were not invulnerable, after all?
İrfan caught a downwind and sailed south at full speed. He knew that the coastal conflict between the Turks and Greeks lessened in southern waters. The north was tense, but the south was viewed by both sides as a vacation spot. That was the place to head for.
One calm and peaceful afternoon, İrfan anchored his boat and watched the reflection of the sunlight on the sea. He gazed at the distant shores covered with ancient cypresses, the white buildings of Orthodox monasteries just visible on the islands, and, on the Turkish coast, miniature mosques, their tiny minarets piercing the sky. He could not help remembering the prayer of the great author Kazantzakis: “Dear God, please don’t let this harmony be ruined. I don’t ask you for anything else. Just don’t let this harmony be spoiled.”
What İrfan wished for was exactly the same.
As the days passed, he knew he had been right to change his life. He could feel himself becoming a free and different man, joy fluttering inside him. The night crises were diminishing. He kept taking his pills but was convinced he was sleeping better. In the dark of the night the boat no longer seemed like a coffin—at least not a closed one.
One day İrfan bought a big piece of cardboard and cut it in half. On one piece, he translated into free verse in English a poem by Robert Frost, whom he admired:
And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died
On the second piece, he wrote in red felt tip a verse by Rumi: “Appear as you are or be as you appear!”
İrfan had not shaved for many days. His gray beard, which used to cover only his chin, had now spread across his entire face. With his shaggy hair and imposing physique, he felt like a mythological god. The more he freed himself from his bonds, the more relaxed he became. His heart beat at a slower pace.
If the day went well, and a big Mediterranean scad or bream seized his bait, İrfan would become the happiest man on earth. He would clean the fish immediately, and after pouring on some olive oil and lemon juice, eat it raw. The music that accompanied his meals was always the same. Jean-Pierre Rampal’s flute blended with the cries of the gulls to create a new melody.
HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A MIRACLE?
Mixed feelings of fear and anger had overcome Cemal when he took off his commando uniform and handed in his cartridge belt, combat knife, and field radio kit. The confused feelings he experienced when he put on the weightless clothes of a civilian gradually became replaced by indifference. If the argument on the train had occurred in the first days after his discharge, he would probably have thrown someone out the window. Now, everything seemed a pointless game he did not care to play. He stayed on the sidelines and watched life do the running. The only thing on his mind was how to get rid of the girl by his side and return to his village and to Emine. He had been separated from Emine by his military service and now by this girl, sniffing as she sat in a hunched ball near the window.
“She looks miserable,” thought Cemal. The previous evening she had seemed fine, but in the morning as the train moved through the endless Anatolian steppes, he had seen that she was ill. He should have shoved her out of the wagon in the dark. He would have been a free man already, and the journey
to Istanbul would have been done with. The fervent longing Cemal felt for Emine had overtaken his desire to see Selahattin. Cemal could go to Istanbul anytime, but he was in imminent danger of losing Emine. If his task had been finished, he could have gotten off at the first station and hurried back to the village. As it was, every minute took him farther away from her.
Cemal wondered why he had not been able to grab Meryem by her skinny neck and push her off the train. Perhaps it was because he really had no desire to do it. Then he decided that he had probably been wary of the government official in the compartment. He might be in touch with the police, and he would have been suspicious if Meryem had disappeared. And if he himself had also disappeared, that would have looked even worse. So he had to wait until the man disembarked at Ankara. Between Ankara and Istanbul, Cemal would be free to act.
He was amazed that the simple killing of a girl was turning out to be such a lot of trouble. During the fighting on the mountains, no one was held accountable for the deaths that took place, but, unfortunately, civilian life was not like that; Cemal would have to heed Emine’s advice and be careful not to get caught.
In the morning, Meryem had woken up with an awful headache. Her body ached, her throat was sore, and she had difficulty swallowing. She remembered that the previous night, after washing her hair, she had stuck her head into the icy wind. That was what had made her ill. Why had Cemal, who never addressed a word to her usually, been so insistent that she look out of the door?
Before she had fallen asleep, Meryem thought about all the women she had seen on the train, mulling over each and every detail she had observed: their painted fingernails, rings, tight-fitting pants, or slit skirts through which their white thighs were visible, their unrestricted behavior, and the way they tossed their hair. Seher’s bold and furious response to the young man, who had insulted her parents, impressed Meryem. When, in the presence of her father and mother, Seher had shouted at the man, whom she had certainly never met before, Meryem had been astonished. Although the man, on hearing her words, had shouted back in Seher’s face, he had not raised his hand to her or attempted to shove her to the floor. And even when the old man had spat in his face, no violence had followed! What a strange world it was!
In the village, women were not allowed to talk in the presence of men or eat with them. They had to hide their natural needs and conceal their pregnancies. When a new bride became pregnant, she tried to keep it a secret, though her mother-in-law would probably guess her condition from a growing appetite for pickles or pomegranate syrup. The girl had to continue working until the last day of her pregnancy without crying or complaining. When the labor pains started, the midwife would be summoned to do her job with the minimum of fuss. If a girl like Seher got pregnant, it seemed likely that she would announce it with pride and be pampered by her family.
Meryem could not say that what she had seen around her had affected her adversely in any way. At the bus terminal, for the first time in her life, she had eaten with Cemal and other men. Opening her mouth in front of them in order to eat had embarrassed her initially, but hunger had soon overcome this feeling, and she had followed her natural inclination to adapt by eating her sandwich and drinking her buttermilk without more ado. Drinking tea on the train had been easier and even enjoyable. If only she could have gotten rid of her scarf, baggy pants, and muddy plastic shoes, she would have felt quite at home. With any luck, when she got to Istanbul, she would be able to dress like Seher. Clothes like Seher’s must be expensive, and Meryem had no money, but she hoped to find a way of getting to look like her.
Her headache and sore throat were getting worse. Her joints ached as if she had been given a good beating. She needed to go to the lavatory but could not find the will or the strength to stand up. Suddenly, she felt a familiar dampness between her legs, and she was overcome by fear and embarrassment. She had thought that the pain in her belly was from a chill, but this had to be her period, the first after Bibi had aborted the baby. She was stricken with panic. What could she do among all these people? If she stood up and turned around, would they see blood on her dress? She would rather throw herself from the train and avoid the shame. If it had started while she was asleep, her dress would be badly stained. There was no way of ascertaining this without standing up.
Even if Meryem made it to the toilet, she did not have anything to staunch the flow. Her aunt used to give her pieces of cotton cloth cut from old undershirts, which she would place between her legs. Immediately after use, they had to be washed with cold water; otherwise, worms would infest them. If they were cleaned with hot water or soap, the stain would never come out. If only she had a few of those rags now. Döne with her snake eyes had hastily shoved a few things into a bag for her but would surely not have put in such necessities even if she had thought of doing so.
Meryem was so frightened that she forgot her pain. Cemal was sitting next to her with his eyes shut. The government official and his wife were sleeping. The sick woman lying on the opposite seats was as motionless as a corpse, and her husband was snoring loudly on the floor.
Meryem decided that she had to stand up, take an undershirt from her bag on the rack above, and tear it into pieces in the lavatory. If people saw her, they would probably notice the stain, but she had to take the risk. “God, help me,” she said to herself, and stood up. With her back to the sick woman, she reached up for her bag but did not have the courage to open it there and take out a shirt. Holding the bag behind her, though she was sure the stain could still be seen, she tiptoed out of the compartment. If Cemal were awake and looked at her, he would be sure to notice the blood. Meryem remembered Bibi’s complaints about being a woman. She agreed with her. Since childhood, it had been this sinful part of her body that had always caused Meryem trouble.
After closing the compartment door, Meryem walked toward the lavatory at the end of the carriage. She tried to feel the back of her dress to see if it was wet but could not be certain.
Meryem started to cry, her head feeling as if it would split in two. As she waited outside the lavatory, she opened her bag and took out an undershirt. She had begun to tear it into pieces when she felt that someone was watching her. She had forgotten the glass doors between the carriages would make her visible to Seher, whom she saw smoking a cigarette and looking at her. Her heart began to pound. Seher opened the door of the other compartment and stepped into the junction between the carriages. The rattle of the train, which she heard as Seher opened the next door, beat in concert with the pain in her head.
“You’re sick,” said Seher, putting her hand on Meryem’s forehead.
Meryem was obviously in pain, and Seher’s heart was moved to see her in such a pitiful state. The young girl’s green eyes stood out in her pale face like two extraordinary wildflowers. After seeing her struggle to tear up the undershirt, Seher understood the situation. “What’s your name?” she asked.
Meryem could barely whisper her name.
“Don’t be ashamed,” Seher said softly. “Pretend I’m your sister. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Meryem felt terribly ashamed but sat obediently on the folding seat in the corridor.
A little later, Seher returned and handed something to Meryem. “Take this, go to the bathroom, and put it between your legs,” she said. “Don’t worry, the blood won’t leak through.”
Meryem, embarrassed, looked doubtfully at the strange little thing in her hand.
“Trust me, we all use them. We get them at the pharmacy,” Seher insisted, pointing at the picture on the box.
Meryem went into the lavatory and locked the door. She washed herself clean and placed the little pad between her legs. After hesitating for a moment, as a safety measure, she also put a piece of the cloth ripped from her undershirt. She took off the baggy pants she was wearing under her dress, put them in her case, and left the restroom to return to where Seher stood waiting for her.
“Good,” said Seher. “Now you can be comfortable. Let�
�s see what else we can do for you. Come to our compartment. Some people have left, so there’s room for you.”
Meryem wondered whether Cemal would allow this or not, but she felt so weak and in need of attention that she could not refuse this kindly offer and followed Seher down the corridor.
After they had been thrown out of their compartment, Seher and her parents had sat in the corridor for a long time before finding seats in another carriage. As it went along, the train was slowly emptying.
Seher’s mother and her father, his face still wearing a strange smile, were the only people in the compartment when Meryem and Seher entered. The two girls sat down side by side, and Seher gave Meryem an aspirin dissolved in water. Then she offered her some hot tea. After drinking three glasses, Meryem felt better and surrendered herself into their hands. Seher’s mother stroked her scarfed head tenderly, murmuring softly as she did so.
Then Seher told Meryem to lie on the two empty seats next to her. Meryem bent her knees to fit into the space, rested her head on the hard green leather cushion, and felt someone cover her. Soon she was lost in the rhythm of the train, which was like a lullaby, the carriage swaying like a cradle. As she dozed, Meryem thought with gratitude of Seher and her mother, though this was accompanied by a niggling worry as to whether any blood had leaked through to her dress. Soon, she fell into a deep sleep. She looked so peaceful and innocent that she reminded Seher and her mother of a child, a pitiful child, wretched, weak, and fragile in her faded dress and green sweater, worn-out at the elbows.
Seher went out of the compartment to smoke another cigarette. She never smoked in front of her father. She wondered curiously about the relationship between Meryem and the soldier traveling with her. Meryem had said that they were cousins, but they had not exchanged a single word. The soldier was always dozing off, tossing, turning, and talking in his sleep, staring at nothing when he was awake. He never took any notice of Meryem, who was obviously scared of him. He was certainly intimidating. Even when completely still, he radiated an energy like that of a predatory bird, which, even when moving slowly, causes its prey to think that it can dart with lightning speed. “Maybe he’s killed a lot of people,” Seher thought. “But he’s still not as underhanded as that official. He may be frightening, but he’s not sly.”
Bliss: A Novel Page 14
