The young man looked at İrfan suspiciously.
His father kept repeating, “What did he say?”
The young man lied. “He’s not interested in land. He said he’s going to drink his coffee and go.”
“There’s a very nice piece of land by the seaside,” the owner insisted. “Ask him if he’d like to see it.”
With great difficulty, the young man said, “She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah!”
İrfan could hardly contain his laughter. He was right. The young man had probably never gone to a language school but had spent his time hanging around in front of tourist bars in order to strike up an acquaintance with foreign girls. So, of course, he knew the names of all the songs.
“It’s now or never,” İrfan said. Then, thinking that a single sentence would sound too short, he quickly added, “Tomorrow will be too late!”
The young man turned to his father, and said, “He says that he’s only here to travel. He’s not interested. I’m off.”
“Stop right there!” his father ordered. “I’ve spent a bundle of money sending you to English courses. Ask him if he has any friends who would like to buy land.”
Unable to look into his eyes, the young man said, “Un, dos, tres, Maria! Chikki chikki, bum bum!”
İrfan nearly burst out laughing. After getting by in English, it was now time to shift to Spanish.
Taking the game a step further, İrfan said seriously, “Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista, Eva Herzigova, Letitia Casta.”
The young man answered with an even more serious air, “Sharon Stone, Claudia Schiffer, Madonna.”
The young man’s father was following the conversation intently. It seemed like a long one. Perhaps, like Nevzat, he was in for a streak of good luck. He would be in clover if this foreigner bought the useless plot of land he had inherited from his father.
When the young man finished speaking, his father asked him, “What did he say?”
“He said that he’s only here to travel around and that he’s tired of our questions. He asked you to leave him alone. He also said that if you keep it up, he’ll lodge a complaint.”
The plump man muttered, “… ucking infidel. So he’ll make a complaint against me in my own country. I wouldn’t sell him land now even if he begged me to. Tell him to finish his coffee and get the hell out of here!”
“Okay.”
Then the boy turned to İrfan and said, “Cicciolina, bye bye!” before retreating along with his father.
İrfan was amused.
After finishing his coffee, he paid the bill and stood up to leave. In Turkish he said, “Thanks. Keep the change.”
The teahouse owner’s eyes popped out of his head, and his son’s face turned crimson. Wishing he might disappear, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
When İrfan returned to his boat, he was still laughing, pleased by the unexpected delight these few minutes had brought him.
IS THIS WHAT DEATH IS LIKE?
When observed from the unfinished, desolate viaduct, the view of Istanbul presented a picture of misery, a scattered, mournful city, like the ruins left behind by a defeated army. It extended into the distance like a wounded giant—and all out of proportion, deformed.
No glimpses of the glamorous temples of the Paleologues, combining the form of the basilica with that of the dome, of the Ottoman mosques with their triple-balconied minarets, of the cheerful messages spelled out by festive Ramadan lights strung between these minarets, of Catholic or Orthodox churches, of imperial galleys with forty banks of oars, or of the palaces with porphyry columns, which transformed the Bosphorus with their brilliance, could be seen in this part of Istanbul.
This was a city distorted by immigration, its tissues swollen and its joints displaced. Under a gloomy, gray sky, drizzle and yellow haze blurred the outlines of jerry-built concrete-block shantytowns, green spaces saved from the axe either because they were military zones or cemeteries, and the distant skyscrapers.
On this wet, unpleasant Istanbul day, the two thin figures standing on the half-built, high concrete bridge paid no attention to the city, or the drizzle, or the occasional lightning flash or crack of thunder that livened up the dismal scene. This was any one of many unfinished bridges and roads around Istanbul, abandoned once the rapacious construction companies in league with a few ambitious bureaucrats had made sufficient profit from illegal deals and shoddy workmanship.
When Meryem looked down, she saw an enormous empty space stretching away beneath her toward a rocky piece of ground. It reminded her of the precipice in her dream, which had made her inmost being shiver and prompted her to take shelter from the coastal wind. This time, it was not the birds flying above, but Cemal, standing silently behind her like a serpent, who made her blood freeze.
Early that morning, Meryem had been woken abruptly and bundled out of the house. The way they had left Yakup’s house at dawn without bidding a proper farewell, the absence of Yakup himself, the expression of terror on Nazik’s face, and Cemal’s implacable attitude indicated that the fate she had tried for so long to ignore was about to overtake her.
As they walked along the road wet with rain, then through muddy fields, Meryem realized that the day of reckoning had arrived. Cemal had taken his own bag but left hers behind at Yakup’s house, suggesting that Meryem would no longer need that ragged bag or the few pieces of frayed clothing. She understood now the real reason for their sudden journey to Istanbul.
Now, here she was, trembling on the edge of the precipice, waiting to be thrown down like a used tissue. She recalled the fat, oily faces of the village women, who had grinned and wished her good luck in Istanbul. She remembered the hens she and Cemal had thrown into the air, to make them fly like airplanes. It was as if she had to review every small detail of her short life. She recalled how the birds’ feet and wings had been broken. “I’m so sorry,” she thought. “Cemal, are you sorry, too? Did you ever think about those hens? They hadn’t far to fall. It’s higher here—so high. Is Istanbul always so deserted and lonely? I’m cold, Cemal. My dress is wet. My back is freezing. Actually it’s not the cold that is making me shiver, but fear. Have you ever felt such fear, Cemal? I have no wings to flap like that crow flying away over there. I can’t look down while flying as it can, my heart would stop. God, why don’t you love me? Why have you gone on punishing me ever since the day I was born? Cemal, God doesn’t love me. He loves you. Why doesn’t he love me? Forgive me, eker Baba. I didn’t sin on purpose. My aunt with the stony heart, who shut the door in my face, didn’t warn me. If God had only loved me just a little…”
Meryem did not know whether she was thinking those words inside her head or saying them aloud. Dizzy and nauseated, she felt her stomach contract each time she looked into the void. Her belly perceived its depth, and gravity exerted its pull.
Suddenly, she heard Cemal say, “Say your prayers and show you believe in God.”
He did not sound angry, and his voice was surprisingly soft. The warmth in his tone encouraged Meryem to turn around to look at him, but Cemal caught her by the shoulders and forced her to face the drop.
“Show that you believe in God,” he said again. “After committing so many sins, at least say your prayers before you stand in front of Him.”
After she had chanted three times in a loud voice the Islamic confession of faith: “Ehedü en la ilahe illallah, Muhammeden resulullah,” the sudden, total silence made Meryem desperate. There was nothing more she could do now. God, who had never loved her, was punishing her for the last time, and here she was at the edge of this fearful drop. Cemal was merely the means, a wretched murderer fulfilling God’s will that Meryem be punished.
“Cemal,” said Meryem, the courage and determination in her voice startling even herself. “Cemal, I have one last wish to ask you, for the sake of the times we shared together in the past. Please blindfold me. I don’t want to see the rocks when I fall. Please, I beg you, blindfold me.” Her words ended with a hiccup and a
sob.
Cemal did not answer, but then she heard the sound of his feet approaching over the loose gravel as he drew near, loosened her scarf, and tightly blindfolded her with it. Finally, he knotted its ends at the back of her head. She shuddered when she felt Cemal’s warm breath on her bare neck. The scarf hurt her eyes, but she felt better now that she could not see the world around her. She began to sway backward and forward as though she were about to fall.
The tranquillity that had enveloped Meryem when talking to Cemal a few minutes ago was replaced by the agitated beating of her heart and a ringing in her ears. Her breath came in pants, and the blood rushed to her head. Terror was like a bird flapping its wings inside her chest. All she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The entire city of Istanbul was buried in silence.
Meryem tried to think of all the good people in her life. She tried to picture her mother’s face, yet she could do no more than imagine a vague white shadow standing with a lamp in her hand at the door of her bedroom at the top of their house. She had never been able to imagine her mother any differently.
Then she tried to think of Bibi. She remembered the hurt look in the old woman’s eyes and how she had begged her forgiveness.
Meryem realized that thinking of people who had never harmed her increased her fear, whereas thinking about Döne or her aunt aroused her anger. She could not help remembering the hens lying on the ground with broken legs and bloody wings.
As Meryem lost herself in her memories, Cemal was preparing to shove her over the edge. It was then that he saw a single transparent bead of perspiration, as if her mortal fear had condensed into a single drop, trickling down her delicate neck. “She’s afraid to die,” he thought. The smooth, lucent drop resembled rainwater. What a frail neck the girl had. He noticed a few strands of auburn hair blowing in the breeze. Then he realized that Meryem was no longer able to control her breathing. Her chest and shoulders were heaving involuntarily.
That morning, after leaving Yakup’s house and walking through the fields, Cemal had felt as though he were being chased by the PKK terrorists. His shoes sank deep into the mud, and he walked quickly, as he had been trained to do in the army. He could keep this pace up for hours and walk a whole day and night without rest, but soon he realized that the girl with him was out of breath, and though she had broken into a run, the distance between them was widening. He heard her stumble and fall more than once, but she always got up again and struggled to keep up with him. Finally, he had slowed down.
Since the beginning of their journey, Cemal had felt he must remain emotionally unattached to the girl. This was not through cruelty but the attitude of a predator. His instincts told him that Meryem must remain a stranger to him, so he had tried to suppress all memories related to their childhood. Now he heard the girl’s fitful breathing as she stood there with her back to him. He noticed the goose bumps on her neck, and smelled a mixture of cinnamon and dried roses when the breeze blew from her direction.
Cemal’s resolve began to waver. He could not help remembering her childish giggles when they played games, her illnesses, the way they had rolled hoops together and climbed trees to look at birds’ nests. Slowly, Meryem was transformed into the little girl Cemal used to know so well. He remembered how they would pull the horse cart backward into the courtyard. He could smell the bitter scent of honeydew melons piled in a corner. He remembered how he and Meryem used to break open the unripe melons by hitting them against a big stone and devour them as the juice poured down their chins. Once, during the Liberation Day celebrations, Memo, who was acting the part of a Turkish soldier, had bruised Cemal’s temple with his gun. Meryem had ground up some hemp seeds, wrapped them in cloth, and rubbed them on Cemal’s forehead.
When Cemal realized that his wall of resistance was starting to cave in, he immediately focused his thoughts on Meryem’s sin.
In the military, they had taught him to focus on the idea that the enemy was “inhuman.” Now, the girl in front of him was not the girl he knew as a child but a soiled, sinful woman, who had discredited his family. His family could not survive such shame. For centuries, this crime had been dealt with and punished in the same way. This was God’s will. It was his father’s will. No one could defy God’s rules. Besides, this sinful girl was the only obstacle standing between him and Emine.
As he prayed “Bismillahirrahmanirrahim!” he suddenly remembered a previous Feast of Sacrifice. As a small boy, his father had ordered him to cut the throat of a blindfolded sheep. Then, too, he had prayed before the killing.
He collected himself and repeated, “Bismillahirrahmanirrahim!” Three more droplets of perspiration rolled down Meryem’s white neck. They were smaller and rolled faster. He could hear the girl’s troubled breathing. As a whistling sound came out of Meryem’s throat, Cemal foamed with rage—vile creature, bitch, disgraceful, disgusting, filthy, sinful thing!
Then, with all the violence of the pain inside of him, he hit her.
Uttering a wild scream, Meryem reeled from the blow and tumbled down into blackness, not knowing what was happening. She felt herself hit the ground with a thud. The taste of mud filled her mouth. One side of her head felt numb.
After a few seconds, she could feel the wetness of the cold ground on which she lay. Her eyes were blindfolded, but she realized that she could still breathe. Oddly, she did not feel any pain except on the left side of her face. The oppressive silence had disappeared, to be succeeded by the sound of distant traffic and calls to prayer.
Meryem lay motionless, afraid to breathe. Then she slowly removed the scarf from in front of her eyes and saw wet concrete and ugly stones beneath her cheek. Cemal was squatting down three feet away.
Suddenly, it was as if the sun had risen inside of her. Her heart lifted, like a rainbow appearing after a day full of black clouds.
She was not dead. The way Cemal was crouching on the ground implied that she was no longer about to die. Cemal would not kill her now, and nor would anyone else.
Meryem had finally defeated her family, who had closed their doors against her and sent her out to die. Their plans to get rid of her had all been in vain.
She sat up with a triumphant expression on her face and walked toward Cemal, without even thinking about her aching cheek, now going purple from the blow.
Cemal was squatting on the ground, rocking backward and forward with his arms wrapped around his knees. It was he who was in pain now, not Meryem.
Meryem bent over Cemal with such a feeling of self-confidence and compassion that the protective energy flowing out from this young girl was almost palpable.
She touched him on the shoulder. “Come on, Cemal. Let’s go. There’s no need to stay here getting wet.”
It did not seem strange to address him in such an authoritative way, though up to that day, she would have not thought it possible to speak to him like that.
Cemal pushed Meryem’s hand away roughly, but then, like an obedient child, stood up and began to walk away slowly without looking at her. This time, Meryem could easily keep up with him. He no longer strode in front of her like a mountain commando but trudged along slowly and wearily. Overwhelmed by gratitude and compassion, Meryem wrapped the faded headscarf around her head like a triumphal banner.
As she walked along the muddy roads of the deplorable district where hundreds of electric cables festooned the houses like dry creepers, Meryem was sure that, although Yakup and Nazik would be stunned when she and Cemal returned together, they would act as if nothing had happened.
And so they did. After the first few moments of silence, the children, the television, the Hizbullah operation, and many other irrelevant subjects were discussed until the tension in the air disappeared, and everyone felt relieved. Even the purple swelling on Meryem’s left cheek apparently went unnoticed.
Yakup and Nazik were aware of everything that had happened, but the children were utterly lost in their own world ruled by the television. They sat cross-legged on the floor with their e
yes glued to the screen. Even when they spoke to each other or replied to their parents’ questions, their eyes remained fixed on the magic box. They knew everything about chocolate of all kinds, different brands of olive oil, credit cards, automobiles, newspapers, chewing gum, banks, washing detergent, and margarine, and had learned by heart all the advertising jingles. They participated in this ritual of watching the television with great eagerness, determined not to miss a single program, commercial, sitcom, or whatever else might be shown to them.
Watching television was not allowed in Meryem’s home. Although she had seen it once or twice at a friend’s, she had never watched it enough to become addicted. Now, she saw that Yakup and his family seemed to live in a world of television, as though they thought of their own lives as something temporary that had to be endured. The children knew the names of all the television personalities and their characters better than those of their own relatives. They would sing along with a bottle blonde who barked rather than sang and imitate the dancing of an excessively painted lady.
When a showman pointed his finger at the camera, and shouted, “Ay-ay, ay-ay,” the children in turn would point their fingers at the screen and scream, “Ay-ay, ay-ay!”
This was a world that was totally foreign to both Cemal and Meryem.
According to the television, the weather, which had remained rainy for much of the week, was about to become colder, due to a low-pressure system coming from the Balkans. Hanging from the ceiling, the red-hot metal bedstead, through which Yakup illegally channeled electricity,warmed them like a desert sun.
“You look miserable,” Nazik said to Meryem. “Let me give you something else to wear. If we wash your dress now, it’ll be dry by tomorrow.” At the same time, she squeezed Meryem’s hand, and whispered, “I’m so glad,” convincing Meryem that Nazik was a good person.
Nazik looked older than her age. She had to carry home water from the public fountain some distance away, take care of three kids, clean other people’s houses four days a week, and work overtime under Yakup at night in bed.
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