As she lay on her pallet that evening, Meryem contemplated all that had happened that day. She tried to understand why Cemal had felt helpless enough to content himself with only hitting her, but she fell asleep without an answer.
Early the next morning, after Cemal had left with Yakup, the two children had gone to school, and the baby had been consigned to the care of a neighbor, Nazik and Meryem set off for the city center.
“I’ve got something to do there,” said Nazik. “Come along, and you can have a look at Istanbul,” and added, “I know you’re wondering where we’re going in the blue bus. I’m going to have an abortion. Yakup doesn’t want to use condoms, so I always end up at the midwife’s place. I can’t remember how many times I’ve been there.”
Meryem asked her once again why she went through all this trouble for the sake of living in Istanbul.
“Yakup doesn’t listen to me,” replied Nazik. “He’s obsessed with this contemptible city. He keeps saying that he wants to bring his children up here.”
Meryem was wearing a blue dress and a scarf with brown and yellow flowers that Nazik had given her. Her own scarf and threadbare dress, which had endured so much sweat and anguish, had been washed and hung out to dry. She felt awkward in someone else’s clothes.
Meryem studied the surroundings from the window of the bus. Even though the bus passed through many neighborhoods, Meryem saw nothing that resembled her picture of Istanbul. A while later, she saw some buildings that resembled those in the small city she had seen in the East. The ground floors of the buildings were occupied by greengrocers, barbers, and electricians.
At one of the stops in a certain neighborhood, the bus driver’s assistant called out, “Midwife’s stop!” Many women got off the bus.
“This stop used to have a different name,” Nazik explained, “but now everyone calls it the midwife’s stop.”
They entered an old building that smelled of gas, boiled cabbage, and mold. Many muddy pairs of shoes—men’s, women’s, and children’s—were piled up in front of the doors outside the apartments on each floor.
Nazik rang the bell of one of the apartments on the third floor. A plump woman with a large black mole on her cheek showed them in to the waiting room. It was crowded, and Meryem felt a little afraid as she glanced at all the women waiting their turn.
The women wore strange clothes like none Meryem had ever seen before. Most of them were bundled up in black garments that concealed every part of their bodies, except for the eyes. Some had covered the top half of themselves in large shawls or even blankets, which hung all the way down below their waists. Gradually feeling more secure among other women, they relaxed and began to remove some of their wrappings.
“These women often have to have abortions,” said Nazik, “because their husbands don’t like to use condoms—just like Yakup. And the pill causes cancer, they say. That’s why this place is always so full. The women come out of the surgery after five minutes, go back home, and cook dinner for their husbands. They constantly complain about being beaten by their men. It makes you want to vomit.”
Meryem listened attentively to a conversation about being beaten. These women, who hid themselves under thick layers of clothing and kept away from strangers, were talking excitedly about the brutality they experienced at home. Sharing their stories with others seemed to relieve their feelings. Only one woman had a different twist to her story. Her young, beautiful face was blue, one of her eyes was swollen, and she had a cut on her lip. Embarrassed, she quietly shared her experience.
The day before she had had an abortion and had come back today to pay for it. Her husband had beaten her for the first time last night. Yesterday, when all the other women had been exchanging stories about their beatings, she had told them that she was newly married and that her husband, who loved her dearly, would never mistreat her by giving her as much as a pinch. That evening, an acquaintance of the young woman, who had overheard her, had told her own husband about the boastful newlywed. He, in turn, had scolded the young woman’s husband in front of everyone at the neighborhood teahouse for not beating his wife. “What kind of a man are you,” he had said, “if you don’t beat your wife and fancy letting her brag about it at the midwife’s!”
The young woman’s husband, whose pride was injured, had then gone home and punched his wife in the face. “You’ve ruined my reputation!” he shouted as he beat her.
“He can’t really bring himself to harm me,” the young woman said. “He was affected by the others. He wouldn’t do it otherwise. He loves me too much. When we’re alone, he calls me his little dove. It was the other men who led him astray.”
After hearing her say this, Meryem thought the woman would probably have to endure another beating that night. Her swollen face and rapidly blackening eye had made these women, shrouded in black, with their white, double chins quivering in sympathy, consider that she, too, shared the secrets of their fate. Of course, in public they would seem sorry for her, but behind her back they would say, “Serves her right.” This was only natural—whoever is badly treated wants everyone else to be treated badly, too. But those dull women did not know that the purple bruise on Meryem’s cheek was the sign of her victory.
Soon it was Nazik’s turn to go into the surgery. Before long, she came out, looking shaken and dazed. After she rested on a chair for a short while, they left the midwife’s apartment and took the bus home. Nazik remained silent throughout the trip, and Meryem, afraid of upsetting her, did not ask any questions. Though the ways of God could not be questioned, Meryem realized that He did not love Nazik either.
Suddenly, Meryem shook with a sob that welled up from deep inside her, and she began to weep hysterically. Tears poured down her cheeks, and the people in the seats in front turned around to look at her. Nazik shook her by the shoulders and said something, but Meryem did not hear her. Pulling herself together enough to dry her eyes on the edge of her scarf, she bent forward, forcing herself to stop, but her frail shoulders continued to heave. Every now and then, a muffled sound like the cry of a kitten could be heard. She had no idea why she was crying, but no matter how hard she tried, she could neither stop nor suppress the feelings surging up in her heart, not even when they got off the bus and began to walk home over the field.
When they came near their neighborhood, Meryem noticed that Nazik was in pain and having difficulty walking. Feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself, she stopped weeping and tried to help her.
As they entered the house, Nazik hugged Meryem and said, “It had to be like this, Meryem. It’s a good thing you cried. You’ve been like a stone ever since you came here.”
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
After Cemal had smashed his fist into Meryem’s face, a paralyzing feeling of helplessness had overwhelmed him as the rain spat down on them.
Where was he to hide the girl he had been ordered to kill? Now that he had spared her, her desire to live would become even stronger. What could he do with her?
All night long, he pondered over this problem, as the raindrops beating on the roof dripped into the plastic buckets placed here and there. The only solution he could think of was to get on a train and go back to his village and Emine.
At dawn, Cemal leapt out of bed with the thrill of having discovered an answer to his problems. He woke up Yakup and said, “I’m leaving. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch the morning train. Good-bye.”
He was lying. First he would find Selahattin, and after spending a few days with him, he would leave for his village. He would remain tight-lipped about Meryem. Everyone in the village had observed his silence. The villagers would respect his unwillingness to discuss the subject. Besides, it would not be in anyone’s favor to probe.
All of a sudden, he heard Yakup say gruffly, “Wake Meryem up, too.”
“Brother,” Cemal said, “you know I can’t take her back. Let her stay here for a while. She gets along well with Nazik. She can help with the housework.”
Yakup looked at
him grimly. “That’s not possible,” he said. “I can’t feed another mouth. Besides, I left the village to stay away from trouble, but you searched me out and brought it with you. Get off my back! Leave us alone, for heaven’s sake.”
His tone was resolute, and Cemal was surprised to realize how much his brother hated his family and his hometown. He also understood that his plan would not work.
That morning, when Yakup left home, he went with him. Yakup worked as a waiter in a kebab restaurant downtown. He could have found a better-paying job, but he had plans. The kebab business was profitable. Every day, a new restaurant owned by a person who had formerly been a waiter opened its doors. After working in a kebab restaurant, people learned such crucial details as where to buy meat, how to cook the meat by stacking it on a large, vertical spit, and how much to pay a good kebab cook. Once they had mastered this lore, they were in a good position to set up on their own.
Yakup was eager to have his own kebab place. When the first one was up and running, he could open another restaurant of the same type. After five years or so, he might end up owning three restaurants. The place where he worked now was always filled with customers. There were tables inside, as well as a booth opening on the street to sell sandwiches to passersby. All day long, customers were served from trays of all sorts of kebabs, or ate fried meatballs coated with cracked wheat and served with pita and glasses of buttermilk or beet juice. Yakup was determined to succeed in his ambition and provide a good future for İsmet, Zeliha, and Sevinç. They would not share the dismal fate of those condemned to live in his hometown but would go to good schools in Istanbul, far away from the outdated traditions and the harsh and unhappy life of the east. Every day he vowed that he would realize this dream.
As they parted, Yakup gave Cemal directions to the wholesale fish market. It was not hard for Cemal to find the market, which had the same crazy, crowded, nauseating atmosphere that Cemal had noticed the first day he arrived in Istanbul. Fishing boats were constantly coming and going. Nets spread out on the breakwater gave off strange smells, and thousands of fish poured like silver rain out of the returning boats while screaming seagulls flew madly above. Vendors in blue aprons constantly kept the fish, arranged on red wooden trays, fresh by sprinkling water over them, and called out in loud voices to attract customers. Fat cats crouched in corners, working out ways to steal the fish they had their eyes on. Doubtful customers handled the fish to see if the gills were still red and looked into their dead eyes to catch a last glimpse of life in order to reassure themselves that the fish were freshly caught. The ground everywhere was sodden, constantly washed down with a hose, no one showing the least concern as to who got wet.
Cemal stopped a few people to show them Selahattin’s card and ask for directions, but since he, in ignorance, chose customers first, they could not tell him. Finally, the first fisherman he asked pointed him toward a distant fish stall.
As Cemal walked through the crowd, he wondered why people in Istanbul behaved so oddly. When they spoke, they never looked you in the eye. They answered your questions reluctantly and only after you asked them several times.
The young fishermen at the fishmonger’s stall were sprinkling water from plastic buckets over their trays of fish and yelling at the top of their lungs, “Bluefish, turbot! Fresh fish! Come and get it!”
After confusing Cemal with a customer and praising their wares, they told him that Selahattin was in the office at the back.
The reunion of the two friends, who had shared a bunk for many months, was warmer than Cemal had expected. When Selahattin stood up to embrace him, Cemal realized that the bullet must have hit the joint since Selahattin limped and could not straighten his knee. Selahattin had gained weight. His face was round, and with his thin moustache, he seemed quite different from when he was in the army.
Selahattin seated Cemal in an armchair and ordered him a glass of tea, while many people came in and out of the office accompanied by the constant ringing of the phone on the table. At the same time, he answered the phone and took care of customers. He smiled and gestured to Cemal, apologizing for the disturbance. “This must be an important place,” thought Cemal, and realized that his friend, who had been his equal in the army, had a higher status now. He felt embarrassed.
Selahattin took Cemal for lunch to a small tradesmen’s restaurant, where he introduced him to many people as his “comrade from the military.” One of the boys working at the fish stand was Selahattin’s brother. He accompanied them to the restaurant, and they all ate together, chatting and joking about their life in the army.
When they returned to the office in the afternoon, Cemal several times tried to take his leave, but Selahattin would not let him go. “No,” he said, “we’re going home together.”
At the end of the day, they got into Selahattin’s Honda and drove to a district of narrow roads and high apartment buildings. Selahattin’s apartment was on the second floor of one of these buildings.
A young woman, very tidy and clean in appearance, her head covered with a headscarf, opened the door. “Your sister-in-law,” said Selahattin, introducing his wife.
“Welcome,” she said, though she did not take Cemal’s outstretched hand, indicating her strict religious convictions.
Cemal thought Selahattin’s apartment was the most magnificent home he had ever seen. He had never seen so much furniture in one house. There were so many white-painted, gilded armchairs and carved, inlaid coffee tables that there was hardly any space to move around. When Selahattin saw Cemal’s obvious admiration, he said with pride, “Oh, these, they’re Lukens.” Cemal had never heard of Lukens so had no idea what he meant, though the “Louis Quinze” style was the most popular in Turkey at that time.
The television in a walnut-paneled cabinet was tuned to a religious channel, where a woman in a headscarf was holding forth. Besides the carpets on the floor, there were more carpets on the wall, one depicting “Holy Mecca” and another an exciting deer hunt. All of the furniture, including the television, was covered with handmade lacework, probably part of the trousseau prepared for Selahattin’s wife. A crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling illuminated all this splendor.
Cemal feared that the difference in status between Selahattin and himself was turning into a huge gulf. How could he be friends with someone who lived in such a dazzling place as this?
After Selahattin had performed the evening namaz, they ate some fish from the stall, hurriedly prepared by Selahattin’s wife, who then served tea before disappearing out of sight. As soon as the two friends were alone, Selahattin asked him, “You have a problem, don’t you? You’ve been acting like a broody turtledove all day long. What is it? Money? Work? Love?”
Although Cemal did not know how to explain his dilemma to Selahattin, he wanted his friend to insist on being answered, because he was the only person in whom Cemal could confide.
In spite of being intimidated by the crystal chandelier, the highly carved armchairs, and the floors covered with all those expensive carpets, Cemal told Selahattin the whole story, clearly and concisely.
As he listened, Selahattin nodded frequently. “Yesterday you avoided committing a great sin,” he interrupted, finally. “Thankfully, you are not sitting here as a murderer. God softened your heart and saved you from that, I’m glad to say.”
Cemal was confused. Selahattin, with whom he had many times fired at the enemy, considered the killing of a mere girl important.
“That was war,” Selahattin said. “The Holy Quran judges war differently. But killing an innocent girl … it’s not the same as fighting an enemy in battle.”
The more Cemal spoke with Selahattin, the more relieved he felt and the longer he wished the conversation to continue.
“But doesn’t Islam order men to kill women who’ve sinned?”
“No.”
“But what about stoning? Shouldn’t adulteresses be buried up to the waist in the ground and stoned to death?”
“No. Th
ere’s no such punishment in the Quran. Such things are just made-up stories.”
“How can that be?” asked Cemal. “My father says that stoning was carried out until Atatürk came to power.”
“It’s an incorrect punishment, which is applied in some Arab states, but it has no place in Islam. Besides, it is very difficult to prove adultery. Islamic law requires that the sword be seen in its sheath by three witnesses. What’s the girl’s name?”
“Meryem.”
“Have you seen the sword in Meryem’s sheath?”
Cemal blushed. “No.”
“How do you know she’s guilty?”
“My father told me so.”
“How can you kill a human being just on hearsay?”
Cemal began to wonder if Selahattin was from a different religion. He had never heard of such tolerance in Muslim belief before.
“In Islam, killing a human is considered sinful,” Selahattin continued.
“I think you’re wrong,” said Cemal. “Many religious organizations, Hizbullah for instance, kill people all the time.”
“They’re perverts,” said Selahattin. “They use Islam in order to fulfill their political goals. Killers and terrorists can be members of any religion. One should turn to the main source of Islam—the Holy Quran, and the hadiths of the Prophet. Have you read Sahih-i Buhari?”
“No,” said Cemal.
“You probably haven’t even read the Quran. I thought your father was a sheikh. How did he educate you?”
Then Selahattin told Cemal that he wanted to take him to a ceremony that was to be held the next evening by a religious sect in the district of Eyüp Sultan, in order to correct his misconceptions about Islam.
After Cemal promised to come, they continued discussing his problem. They examined it from various angles, yet could not find a solution. Meryem could neither go back to the village nor stay with Yakup’s family. She could not be left alone in this city. Even if Cemal found a job, he and Meryem could not stay in the same house as an unmarried couple. Nobody would rent them an apartment. Besides, Cemal did not want to stay in Istanbul. He wanted to return home and marry his beloved.
Bliss: A Novel Page 21
