by Yashar Kemal
Zaladja’s hands worked like a machine and she had already filled three large baskets. Memidik joined the group and soon he had two baskets full to the brim. Tashbash’s wife was silent, wrapped in her thoughts. Her hands, her legs, her breasts, her thighs, her clothes, the basket of cotton she held, gave her a brooding appearance.
Batty Bekir’s wife lay there, lolling on her back, living over again those moments of pleasure. ‘Memidik, come! Come to me again, Memidik, come!’
Zaladja was furious. ‘Be quiet, you shameless creature!’ she cried.
The pale streak in the east widened. A gentle breeze sprang up, the invigorating wind of dawn, breathing joy and lightness into men’s hearts. Someone broke into a song full of gladness. The workers began to drift into the cotton field, each carrying a basket or a tin can. They took up their places in a row. And suddenly the plain burst into light and sound and all was feverish activity. The labourers set to gathering the dew-wet cotton bolls, stuffing them into sacks, cans, baskets, aprons even. Soon they shook off the last remnants of sleep and their hands worked nimbly.
This year the field in which they were picking lay near the banks of the Jeyhan River. It belonged to Muttalip Bey, who owned more than a thousand dönüms of the most fertile land in the Chukurova. The cotton rose waist-high, with scores of bolls to a plant, each boll as large as a fist. All over the Chukurova the crop would be plentiful this year. Even the Colonel’s arid plantation where they had worked the year before was yielding a good crop. This year the villagers would be able to pay their debts and have money left over as well.
Their feet sank into the soft earth. The large moist cotton bolls flowed from plant to hands, from hands to sacks and baskets and skirts.
In the mornings the cotton is always wet from the night dew. The labourers start picking long before dawn, stacking the wet cotton into sacks. But when the noonday heat beats down on the plain they retire into the shade of their wattle-huts or booths and spend the hot hours plucking the seed out of the pods. The bur is still wet and pliant. It does not crumble and mix with the cotton which comes out spotlessly white. But if the plant is already dry when picked, it is more difficult to keep the brittle leaflets out and the cotton is not so pure, and soiled cotton is not paid so well.
Memidik’s hands had never been so quick and never had he felt so happy. The villagers were drawn out in a long line, some on their haunches, some kneeling, others stooping. At the other end of the line he caught a glimpse of Old Halil, bent in two, working as fast as anyone.
Now, Memidik thought, now they’ll notice Sefer’s absence. ‘Where’s the muhtar?’ they’ll ask each other. Then they’ll hunt for him high and low, but they won’t find him. And three days later his wives will start the funeral keening. ‘He couldn’t stand it any longer,’ people will say. ‘A headman, to be so humiliated at the hands of his own villagers! So he went and killed himself. Threw himself into the bottomless well or into the river …’
But suppose someone had seen Memidik disposing of the body? Suppose the eagles and the vultures and the buzzards had already spotted the corpse? … Suddenly he remembered the knife. ‘I must be mad!’ he whispered. ‘I forgot the knife. I left it there in the wound. People will recognize it. They’ll know it’s mine.’ Then Memidik’s hand went to the sheath hanging at his waist, and the knife was in it!
The sun was very hot now, the plain like a furnace, but the cotton bolls still held their moisture. The mosquitoes had gone with the sunrise, retreating into shady nooks. Instead the air was invaded by midges, those tiny pin-point black flies that pullulate as the sun grows hotter, sticking to people’s faces, tenacious, multiplying by the hundreds as you kill or brush them off, a torment to men, cattle and donkeys, a plague to every living creature.
Memidik’s face and hair were black with midges. Only his teeth gleamed. Yet he felt nothing, nothing but fear. What if his corpse had been discovered? He must leave the cotton, he must go back and make sure. But someone might follow him, Omer perhaps, that devilish brute, Sefer’s henchman … That dog … ‘You just wait! Only let me get rid of Sefer’s carcass and it’ll be your turn, my fine lion!’
The villagers were growing tired now. Heavy acrid smells of parched grass, of sun-baked earth, of steaming cotton hung in the air over and above the pungent odour of sweating bodies. Memidik’s back was soaking. The sweat fell from his brow, dripping on to the ground before him. White patches of salt had gathered on his shirt.
Somewhere a woman laughed. And suddenly Batty Bekir’s wife was beside him. Her strong woman’s scent made his head whirl. ‘Memidik, come, let’s go,’ she breathed. ‘Come with me. I’ve never had a man like you. I’ve been with many men, but never with anyone like you …’
It was then that he saw her, Zeliha, the girl who, dreaming or awake, filled his life. Zeliha, all brightness and light, with her rosy cheeks, her full fiery lips, her sloe-black slanting eyes, her firm high breasts and slim alluring figure. She was Ayshe Woman’s daughter and already twenty, with all of a woman’s seductive wiles. Memidik was mad about her, but he had always fought shy, too ashamed even to look her in the face. Now he straightened up and walked up to her, the heady female odour of the other woman still clinging to his nostrils. For the first time he looked Zeliha full in the face, straight into her eyes. Then he said something that nobody would have credited him with.
‘Zeliha,’ he stammered. ‘Zeliha, I’ve already picked enough for myself. Now I’m going to do your picking too.’
The girl was struck dumb and could not bring herself to utter a word as Memidik fell into the row beside her.
Everyone in the village knew of Memidik’s secret passion. They also knew that he had never dared come near Zeliha, much less raise his head to look at her. Now all stared at him, their hands arrested. But for Memidik the whole world was blotted out. Only the beloved presence at his side existed for him now. His head bent over the cotton plants, he trembled with joy.
Batty Bekir’s wife had followed him. She planted herself on his right and whispered to him urgently. ‘Memidik, come with me. What do you want with her? A man like you … Come with me …’
Zeliha did not move. She stood there quite still. Once Memidik looked up at her and his eyes were like two live coals. He smiled and went to empty the brimming basket into Zeliha’s sack. Everyone stared at him as though he were naked.
‘Memidik,’ the other woman murmured. ‘Memidik, come away …’
Zeliha sat down suddenly. The earth was burning. ‘Memidik,’ she said faintly, ‘dear brave Memidik! You’ve come to me at last …’ She relished the feel of the hot earth and when it had cooled beneath her, she slipped farther on and the heat seared her flesh again.
Not a leaf stirred. The flat, treeless, white, cotton plain steamed and glittered with millions of tiny blinding sparks under the merciless sun. The whole Chukurova was bleached white and yellow, save for a narrow ribbon of pale green that wound along the banks of the Jeyhan River. And westward, where the river made a bend, a marshy wood showed up dark in a landscape permanently overcast by a dense cloud-like heat-haze.
Memidik’s back was aching. Most of the villagers had retired into their wattle-huts or their tents. Some had sheltered under the booths, away from the sweltering sun. They had opened their sacks and were busy drawing the cotton out of its bolls. Memidik straightened up and looked into the distance. Then he bent down over the cotton again.
‘Stop now, Memidik,’ Zeliha pleaded. ‘It’s much too much! How will I ever pluck all that today? Why, half a dozen hands couldn’t do it …’
All at once Memidik’s hands froze in mid-air and the basket fell to the ground. His face turned yellow, then white as a sheet. He sank down, trembling.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ Zeliha said, alarmed. She flew to the jug and poured out a tumblerful. She had to hold it to his lips for his hands shook too violently to hold the tumbler.
His gaze was riveted on the oncoming figure of Sefer, Muhtar Se
fer himself there, before him in the flesh. He could not believe his eyes. Was it a ghost? On he came with his long heavy stride, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, a brace of francolins and a hare swinging in his hand. He was wearing huge boots with soles made of tyre-rubber. He passed on proudly erect and went to his wattle-hut at the far end of the field. Now he would clean his catch with his own hands, salt the meat and lay it over the embers of a slow fire. And soon a tantalizing smell of roasting flesh would be floating about the wattle-huts, maddening to those people who never tasted meat for months on end.
This was Sefer’s way of getting his own back on the villagers who had refused to talk to him ever since Tashbash, on the day he had been arrested, had ordered them not to do so. He would pick up a fat, well-roasted francolin, turn it over slowly in his hands, and then, as he ate it, he would stroll among the wattle-huts, smacking his lips and licking his greasy fingers. And the children would raise a wail: ‘I want a bit of meat too! Mother, get me some meat too …’ All through the night the villagers would be beset by dreams of warm, sizzling, fragrant meat and wake to the insistent greedy cries of their children. ‘Mother, just a little bit of meat …’ But Sefer never let anyone have a morsel, not even his wives or his own children. What was left over he would either keep for the next day or fling into the river before the eyes of the whole village.
Memidik forgot his basket, he forgot everything. He slunk off into his wattle-hut. Now he would never be able to face Zeliha again, nor anyone else. His body was aching, he felt a lancinating pain, where Sefer had tortured him. ‘He didn’t die! … But I’ll kill him yet!’ Who could the dead man be? Had he been dreaming? Could he have imagined the whole thing?
The villagers sat in the shade plucking at the cotton bolls while the bulgur pilaffs simmered over makeshift hearths. A wind had risen, whipping up the dust into whirling white clouds over the roads. Muhtar Sefer was humming a tune as he dressed his game, gloating in expectation of the warm fragrant fumes he would soon be sending over the wattle-huts.
And then Long Ali appeared, bent double under the load he was carrying; he was followed by Elif and the children.
The Muhtar was the first to move. He left his francolin to burn over the fire and rushed up to Ali. Who knows, maybe in the heat of the journey Ali might forget and say a word to him. People would see then that all this talk about being struck dumb or blind if anyone spoke to him was just nonsense.
‘Where’s Meryemdje?’ he shouted. ‘I suppose she’s dead. I’m sorry …’
Ali was sweating under the load. He gave Sefer a black look and turned away. ‘Selam to you, neighbours,’ he said. ‘How are you all?’
Hassan was holding a plastic bag tightly against his breast. In it were twenty-six boxes of matches. This time the cherry-shoots had brought in something big. But he was worn out, his shoulders and back torn and bleeding, and it would be a long while before his wounds would heal in the Chukurova heat.
Suddenly Zaladja rose to her feet. ‘They’ve killed her!’ she hissed. ‘They’ve killed Meryemdje so as to be able to come here more quickly …’
Old Halil hobbled over to Ali. He gulped and swallowed, but remained silent, staring at Ali who stared back, confused, not even attempting to lay down his load.
Then Shirtless jumped up. ‘What a lot of worthless heathens you are, all of you,’ he shouted. ‘Let the man sit down and rest. Come, Ali, it’s very sad, but everyone’s mother dies some day and their fathers too … No one’s in this world for ever …’ He helped Ali put down the load.
Some young men began to set up a new wattle-hut. A few branches, a few sticks, that was all …
Memidik lifted his head. Three eagles were circling high up in the sky. He leapt to his feet and began to run.
9
A star-spangled, mosquito-ridden, clammy, stifling, restless night in the Chukurova
Home-Leave Memet had been shouting and cursing since sundown. It was always like this when that belly-ache seized him.
‘Damn you, neighbours. Curse you all from your fathers down to your youngest kid! Fools that you are to come here year after year, into this hell … Damn you, why can’t you stay in your village with its clear, ice-cold springs, eh, you bastards? Oh, oh, oh, this is going to kill me! Neighbours, if I die, don’t bury me here, in this hellish land. Take me up to my highlands … Oh, oh, oh, damn you! Damn you all …’ They clustered about him in twos and threes, weary, sleep-heavy, helpless. There was nothing they could do. Once or twice a week this fit would come upon Home-Leave Memet, and only old Meryemdje could bring him some relief, with the home-made brews at which she was expert.
His screams redoubled with the pain. ‘Help! Where’s Mother Meryemdje? What have you done with her, you heathens? Ah, Long Ali, you’ve killed her, I know you have, just so that I should die in agony … She was my only help and sustenance! Look, I’m dying … Help, help, neighbours! Damn you, damn you all …’
The night was hot and clammy. Not a leaf stirred. Large glittering stars shed a lustre over the dark plain, as though somewhere the moon had just risen. Night insects chirred and from a distant swamp rose the croaking chorus of thousands of frogs. Clouds of mosquitoes churned through the stifling air with a steady vibrant whir. The whole village was scratching away desperately. Such an onslaught of mosquitoes they had never known before. Some of the villagers had lit a bonfire and settled round it. The flames drove the mosquitoes away, but the villagers felt as though they would soon be roasted. On one side the clammy, viscous heat of the night and before them the burning fire … They tried wrapping themselves in sheets or sacks, but it was of no use. There was no escaping the insistent drone, the needling sting, the maddening itch.
‘God damn it!’ Old Halil burst out. ‘I wish this Chukurova would sink to the bottom of the earth, damn it …’
Hassan was suffocating. From his cool mountains he had suddenly fallen into an infernal cauldron. He slipped off, away from the others, and hid behind a blackthorn bush on the roadside. The plastic bag with the matches was in his hand. Quickly he struck a match and let it burn itself out till it scorched his fingers. Then he struck another and another. Now and again he craned his neck above the bush and looked towards the wattle-huts. Someone might be spying on him. People would talk then. They’d say he was not in his right mind …
Old Halil slid quietly over to Long Ali’s side and gripped his hand. ‘I’m sorry about Meryemdje,’ he said mournfully. ‘I know you think that she hated me … But it wasn’t like that at all. Deep down she loved me. She couldn’t do without me. Maybe she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, but that’s how it was. Why, if I’d been the one to die she wouldn’t have lived for more than a couple of days after me. And that’s how it’ll be with me too. I won’t live long now Meryemdje, is dead …’ He broke into sobs.
‘Fancy!’ someone said nearby. ‘Fancy Old Halil weeping over Meryemdje!’
And suddenly Zaladja Woman raised her voice. ‘I saw it in a dream, neighbours! What a fearful dream it was! Long Ali with that dagger in one hand. With the other hand he held Meryemdje by the hair and sawed away at the nape of her neck! I flung myself upon them, but it was too late. Meryemdje’s head had fallen to one side and her body to the other. Oh, the blood that spurted out! It was all in the dream, neighbours, truly it was … I was lying in a pool of blood and my legs were stuck to the ground. I struggled but I couldn’t free myself. And then I saw Long Ali walking down the Chukurova road, his load on his back and in his hand Meryemdje’s blood-soaked head. He held it by her hennaed hair. Meryemdje’s lips were fixed in a smile. Her gold nose-ring glinted in the sun …’ Suddenly Zaladja broke into the traditional keening, beating her knees with her hands. ‘She is gone, my companion, my friend in need, my kindred soul … Gone and left me, solitary as the single stone at the bottom of a well, forlorn, desolate …’
Mosquitoes stabbed and tore at the labourers, piercing through shalvars and shirts, sucking up their weak anaemic blood.
> Long Ali took Old Halil by the hand and raised him to his feet. He led him away from the wattle-huts. Now they were quite near the bush where Hassan was hiding.
‘Listen to me, Uncle Halil,’ Ali said. ‘What are you all talking about? What’s all this fuss and keening? Mother’s not dead.’
‘What? Not dead?’ His trembling hands clasped Ali’s.
‘Of course she isn’t! Will she ever die? We saw that she was really too old and weak for the Chukurova this year, so we baked a huge batch of yufka bread and left it up there for her. Enough bread for three months … Till we come back … And she isn’t quite alone. There’s Spellbound Ahmet, you know. And then, Tashbash may come down from the Mountain of the Forty Holies. You know how he loved Mother. Why, the minute he learns she’s all alone up there, he’ll rush to her …’
Old Halil’s trembling hands were suddenly still and cold as a corpse’s. ‘Not dead? Oh, thank God …’
He sank down beside the bush. Just at that moment Hassan struck a match. It flickered for an instant, lighting up Halil’s wet beard, as he crouched there, his face hid in his hands.
Then a booming voice filled the night. It was Shirtless bragging as usual. ‘My ancestors, that glorious breed, built towers with the skulls of their enemies … My great-grandfather took his last shirt off his back to give to a poor beggar. That’s how the name of Shirtless stuck to us. My breed … That bloodthirsty breed of warriors … Why, even they wouldn’t have done what Ali’s done to Meryemdje!’
Köstüoglu raised his voice in dissent. ‘Why shouldn’t he do it?’ he enquired. ‘When a woman’s too old and decrepit even to walk down to the Chukurova, she’s better off dead. What use is it to drag on like that?’
It was well after midnight and still tongues were wagging about Meryemdje. Everyone was convinced that in one way or another she had met her death.
