‘So that’s why I have those lines on my face,’ said Ziya, and then he added, ‘And what happened to you, my friend? I seem to remember you were engaged when we knew each other. Do you have any children?’
‘Yes, I was engaged,’ replied Kenan. ‘And when I got back to the village, I quickly sold off a few pastures of marshy land and got married, with all the pipes and drums, but sadly the marriage didn’t last long; we divorced after four years, because we had no children, and my wife somehow decided that this must be my fault. During those four years, there wasn’t a doctor in the area we hadn’t asked for help, of course, or a hoca whose hand we hadn’t kissed, or a tree we hadn’t tied a rag around, or a saint we hadn’t entreated. We sold everything we owned around this time. All our money went on votive offerings, and doctors, and hocas. And all that time, of course, we were trying out all the treatments recommended by various famous people, just to see if they would work . . . Then one day, my wife asked for a divorce, and so we did. We parted that very day, in the ugliest way imaginable. To tell you the truth, my wife did something outrageous; having packed up her things to return to her village, she ran around town as if she were holding a doctor’s report and accused me of being impotent. “You’re an impotent louse! That’s what you are – an impotent louse!” She was still in our courtyard when she started shouting, as loud as she could. That uncle of hers with the goitre – he was waiting outside in his car, and when she got in, I thought it would end there. But no. She kept going. She rolled down the window and stuck out her head and until they reached the edge of the village, she kept shouting, as if I had chased after her, as if I was still there. “You’re impotent! An impotent louse!” But I was dumbstruck, I couldn’t speak, let alone move. I just stood there, gaping. And for a time, everyone else in the village stood there, too, in their doorways, at their windows, pressed against the walls. But once the car was gone, and the clouds of dust had settled, they turned around and looked at each other. And that became my nickname. Impotent. And it wasn’t long before the whispers had gone beyond our streets to the towns and villages around us. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Even knowing that the charge was false, I bowed my head like a guilty man. A few years later, I decided I should find a good woman to take as my wife, but no one would have me. I searched and searched, but I found no one, and that was when I came to understand just what an evil thing my wife had done to me, with just a few words. All she’d had to do was shout a few words on her way out, and she’d destroyed my future. Do you know what? It’s something I just haven’t managed to fathom, how after four years of two people putting their heads on the same pillow, one of them could do such a thing to the other. How there is no memory left of the first day they set eyes on each other on this earth, no memory of kisses or caresses. When I think about such things, it still makes me angry. What a strange word that is, anger. For months and months, I held this huge grudge against her. Then one day it occurred to me that if I shouted out the same sorts of words as my wife had done, I would destroy her future, too. And then I thought, the poor woman, what could she have done, maybe this was why she was in such a hurry. And then, I don’t know how this happened exactly, but suddenly I felt some compassion for her. My resentment went, and my anger, too. It was as if I understood her a little. Yes, I understood her, just a little. Hazy as it was, I had some understanding of what was lying underneath those words of hers. And sometimes, when I come up to this forest to chop wood, I look at the trees around me, and the cliffs, and the grass, and the tortoises rustling through the undergrowth, and the snakes sliding into view only to vanish a moment later, and all the insects, and all the birds, and almost always, I think, what a shame it is that my wife and I could not enjoy these things together. Anyway, after that various relatives and village elders got together to find me a new wife, only to return from every house they visited empty-handed. My name had gone before me, and unless I produced a certificate proving I wasn’t impotent, there was nothing I could do. To make a long story short, as one year followed another, and I got older and older, the whole thing began to seem too complicated and I gave up on the idea of marrying, and accepted my fate. What else could I do? I told myself that this was the fate our Lord had written for me. So there’s no family, and no children; just my mother, my sister, and my nephew and me, living together in one house, and doing the best we can.’
‘Damn it,’ said Ziya, shaking his head. ‘You’ve really gone through hell.’
Kenan said nothing as he slowly lit himself a cigarette. Resting his head between his knees, he exhaled into the grass. The ants passing through paused for a moment, as if stunned by the curls of smoke, and then the line began to move again. When he noticed this, Kenan held his breath and looked anxiously into the grass, to see if any ants had died.
‘Shall we get going?’ asked Ziya.
‘Yes, let’s go,’ said Kenan.
And so they stood up, leaving behind them a little mound of cigarette ends, and headed back down the same thyme-scented path they’d struggled up earlier.
‘You’ve changed a lot,’ said Kenan, as they made their way through the juniper bushes. ‘You’re not at all like the person you once were.’
‘If you ask me, some of the differences you’re seeing are differences in yourself,’ said Ziya, giving him a sidelong look.
To himself he said: ‘It’s been thirty years since we last saw each other, for goodness sake! How could I not have changed?’ But he decided it was too trite a thing to say out loud just then. And anyway, he could see the view again, through the gaps in the juniper bushes, and that took all his attention. There were poplars in this view, and sheep pens, and barns, and part of the village, and a sort of pure silence that seemed to promise peace.
And that was why, when they stood before the barn again, he said, ‘I’m sure now. I’m sure that I’ll spend the rest of my life here, in peace.’
‘May God grant your wish,’ said Kenan.
‘If you ask me, it couldn’t be any other way,’ said Ziya, and he drew an arc in the air. ‘Look at this greenery, this tranquillity, this purity. Everything is exactly as I wanted. I was so tired of dealing with life’s chaos. I wanted to live a simple life, where one plus one equals two; and this is a place where such a life is possible. Yes, it really is. A place where a person can live in peace.’
Not knowing what to say, Kenan smiled faintly.
4
Yazıköy
The next day began in happy anticipation at the house Kenan shared with his family. Cevriye Hanım, already in her white headscarf, was pacing back and forth, pausing from time to time to issue brief instructions to Besim, and sometimes she crouched down next to Nefise to knead the dough and see if it was aerated enough, and whenever she stood up again, she told her to hurry up, but also to make sure she had enough dough for the gözlemes. Kenan was there, too: having brought in a few armfuls of oak logs to set down next to the pot-bellied stove, he was now standing by the wall like a dark and weedy ghost. In the corner of the courtyard, in front of the ash cans, the sun was shining brightly, and so, too, were the chickens strutting back and forth. And birds were twittering in the mulberry trees, and beyond the wall, the city shimmered green to the left and blue to the right, while sounds of all colours flowed between them.
‘Time to light the fire, my son,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘The house needs heating up.’
Kenan knelt down, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Placing a few pine cones amongst the logs, he promptly applied his lighter, and once he was sure the fire had caught, he stood up again.
Cevriye Hanım stood next to him, watching his every move, as if she were afraid he might do something wrong.
‘With the weather we’re having, our guest might not wish to stay inside,’ she said then. ‘If it were up to me, I’d set up the table in the courtyard. I’m going off to help Nefise. You and Besim can see to the table in the meantime.’
‘We’ll do that,’ said Kenan.
Before long he had
moved the Formica table in the courtyard into the shade of the mulberry tree. After covering it with the blue floral tablecloth, they sprinkled the ground with a flask of water to keep down the dust.
Then Kenan went off to get Ziya; leaving the courtyard, a cigarette between his lips, he swiftly made his way to the barn.
After he had left, Cevriye Hanım settled herself in front of the stove, and now and then she turned to frown at Nefise. Every time she did so, she seemed about to say something, but she never did. Every time she swallowed instead, and turned her eyes back to the gözlemes cooking on the stove.
Only when the work was done and cleared away could she say it. They’d swept off the flour and washed their hands and now the two of them were sitting at the table.
Leaning over, she said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t dress up for our guest.’ She spoke softly, as if sharing a secret. ‘As you know, my girl, when an apple hangs high, it is asking to be stoned.’
‘But I didn’t dress up,’ said Nefise.
Cevriye Hanım sat up and then leaned back on her chair, and gave Nefise a thorough inspection.
‘What can I know?’ she asked finally, her face clouding with shame. ‘How can I know what you’ll look like to him when he arrives?’
Nefise gazed out over the white plastic chair as if it were a cloud wafting off into the distance, and said nothing.
‘Did you brew the tea?’ asked Cevriye Hanım, to change the subject.
‘I brewed the tea, Mother,’ said Nefise. ‘And I prepared a jug of ayran. Because he might just prefer to drink ayran.’
Just then the neighbour’s son came tumbling into the courtyard. Taking a few more steps, he stopped to catch his breath. Leaning forward, and placing his hands on his knees, and in a trembling voice that matched his general state of panic, he said, ‘My mother’s had more pangs. Hurry. Hurry!’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Cevriye Hanım. Turning to Nefise, she said, ‘You’d better go and see what’s happening. It wouldn’t do for me not to be here at home right now.’
Nefise jumped to her feet and ran to the courtyard gate.
‘Wait a minute!’ Cevriye Hanım cried, rushing after her. ‘Take a few gözlemes with you. Make sure she eats them when they’re still hot, the poor thing.’
Nefise turned around and piled a few gözlemes on to a little tray, which she covered with a white cloth, after which she vanished with the boy who was waiting for her at the gate,
Cevriye Hanım went back to sit down in the silent courtyard, and for a long time she did not move. Her thoughts went to her neighbour Fatma, and her pangs, and to her helpless helper Nefise, and to Numan, who had the face of a bandit, and who had been haunting their door for years now hoping to marry Nefise, and his brother Cabbar. And then, for a moment, she frowned and looked fiercely into the distance, as if Numan were standing there before her, pressing her with all manner of promises. Then she thought, no one could ever go that far, my dear. Everyone has some propriety. Then she stood up and strolled over to the chickens; bending over, she watched them for some time as they moved across the ground like little strobes of light. And as she watched, she spoke to them, very softly: ‘Hey there, you blessed creatures. You have souls, too, don’t you know?’ Unruffled, the chickens continued on their way, brushing against her skirt from time to time as they pecked at the ground. And Cevriye Hanım walked on, very slowly, first to survey the onions lying at the foot of the courtyard wall, and then back to the table. Sitting herself down on one of the white plastic chairs, she looked over her left shoulder at the courtyard gate.
And then suddenly, as if it had been waiting for her to do just that, the gate opened up, and in came Kenan, with Ziya just behind him.
‘So, Mother,’ said Kenan, as she rose to her feet. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my friend.’
Ziya walked over to kiss Cevriye Hanım’s hand.
Though shaded by her headscarf, her unblinking eyes shone as brightly as if he were a long-lost relative.
‘Welcome, my child, you have come in peace. You’re here at last, so please, come in.’
They sat down at the table.
And still Cevriye Hanım kept her eyes on Ziya. She was staring at him with such affection as to put any man ill at ease. As she searched for something to say, she cleared her throat now and again.
‘Where is Nefise?’ asked Kenan, as he looked around him.
‘She’s at the neighbour’s,’ Cevriye Hanım replied. ‘So you see to the tea, why don’t you.’
Kenan stood up.
And as he did so, Cevriye Hanım turned back to Ziya. ‘My child,’ she said, ‘we count you as one of the family. Because for years now, you have been remembered, with love, and longing, and gratitude. So please, relax, and make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ziya, looking ashamed. ‘Thank you so much.’
And then, in a voice as soft as silk, Cevriye Hanım asked after his parents, and his relatives.
‘I lost my parents years ago,’ said Ziya. ‘And quite a few of my relatives, too. They’re all gone, I’m afraid. A few of my uncle’s children are still with us, but we don’t see much of each other. I’m not even sure where they live. It’s the way things are now. Everyone’s scattered.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Cevriye Hanım, nodding slightly as she stared into the middle distance.
There followed a short silence.
‘I know only too well,’ Cevriye Hanım then said. ‘This relative business, there’s no way to solve it. Sometimes you crumble inside to keep the bonds alive, and sometimes you let the bonds crumble just to keep yourself together. One way or the other, it keeps most people hanging. It leaves them in the lurch. And also, we all have to suffer the same number of deaths as we have relatives. And that brings a lot of pain. And what a shame it is that there are those who only make peace with their relatives once they’ve lost someone. Yes, that’s the way it goes. Those are the games that life plays with us. Or maybe it’s the noise of life that makes us so neglectful.’
‘What noise?’ asked Kenan, as he placed the tea tray on the trivet.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘We’re just sitting here having a friendly chat, that’s all.’
Kenan smiled.
‘May it continue for ever.’
Then Besim joined them. Bowing his head in embarrassment, he walked over to Ziya and held out his hand. And for a moment, Ziya thought of the son who had died in his wife’s stomach. As he stood up, he felt a weakness in his knees. Grabbing the side of the table, he looked the boy over, as he thought: ‘So if he had lived, he too would be a strapping young man like this by now.’ As he shook the boy’s hand, he felt almost as if he was touching his own son, and he shivered.
‘Besim is my one and only grandchild,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘His mother and father work in Germany.’
The tulip-shaped glasses were waiting on the table now, all lined up in a row. After pouring the tea, Kenan set the tray of gözlemes in the centre of the table and unwrapped the cloth. Besim helped him, taking great care as he passed out the purple-patterned porcelain plates, the knives and forks and paper napkins. And then, for a time, they sat there in the shade of the mulberry tree. With a lilt to her voice, Cevriye Hanım told Ziya about her village, and her relatives; she spoke of her childhood, of days spent wandering the hyacinth-scented mountains with herds of goats, of nights in horsehair tents which rocked to the distant cries of wolves, and then she told him of the pine tree under which she had first seen her late husband. She told him how her heart had pounded, boom boom boom, and how, one spring day, she had come to be married, fully veiled atop a chestnut horse. She told him how kind and courteous and highly regarded both her late in-laws had been, how they had treated her well from the very first day, and how they had died, much too soon. How she had packed up her food each morning and slung it over her back to go and till the fields, while at the same time caring for her children in their red wooden cradles. How the
y had grown quickly out of their unruly childhood ways to become such lovely people. And then she talked about her eldest daughter Ayşe and her husband Fehrettin, who had left their child to go to Germany, just to earn a crust of bread, and how they had been living there for so many years now, missing their country all the while. And after she had spoken of all this, she came around to Kenan’s military service.
‘I’m speaking as a mother,’ she said, leaning forward to look straight into Ziya’s eyes. ‘And I want you to know that I am eternally grateful for what you did for my son when you were in the army together.’
Ziya shot a look at Kenan.
For a moment, they came eye to eye, but Kenan lowered his head, needlessly picking up his spoon to stir his tea, as if he had only just added the sugar.
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Ziya, but when Kenan kept on stirring he looked back at Cevriye Hanım with surprise. ‘What is this good thing I did for Kenan?’
Cevriye Hanım leaned back and smiled, after which she stared for a time at her napkin, misty-eyed as only the sublime can be. And all the while, that napkin’s white played on her face, rippling ever so lightly across each wrinkle and crease.
‘I just know,’ she said. ‘Refined people like you are always like this, you forget your good deeds, and even if they’re not forgotten, you never speak of them. So it seems you have forgotten . . . But who knows, it could also be that you do not wish to speak of it. But in the face of such modesty, I honestly don’t know what I can say now. Let’s leave it there. The last thing I’d want to do would be to make you blush by embarrassing you needlessly. But I hope you’ll permit me to say one last thing: I know that my son owes his life to you.’
Not knowing what to say, Ziya stared in shock at his plate.
‘And today I was thinking,’ Cevriye Hanım continued, ‘your fate and Kenan’s – they are twinned. Truly twinned. Our fates are all written by the same hand, with the same ink, to be sure, but this does not explain why your fates are twinned, I don’t think. Your fates – how shall I put it – to me they look as if they were written on the same page, with the same purpose, or the same innocence, or even while dreaming the same dream. You could almost say that you came into this world to do the same thing. Look, let me do the sums: you both did your military service in the same place, and between the same dates. And then you each lost your wives. And neither of you remarried. And also, neither of you had wives who gave you children. And then, in addition to all that, and after all those years, you’re both here, living in the same village. Has none of this crossed your minds?’
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