Authors: O.Z. Livaneli
When Cemal arrived home, Döne opened the door and let out a scream of surprise. All the women of the house came running. Upon seeing him, Cemal’s mother wept and thanked God for sending her son back safe and sound. Many boys had returned home in a coffin, or missing a leg, an arm, or an eye.
The women immediately sent word to Cemal’s father and his uncle. They came in haste. When Cemal saw his father, he grasped his hand and kissed it. The old man hugged him warmly. “May God bless you, my boy,” he said. “You fought like a hero and defended your country. Thank God you were spared.” Cemal was pleased to hear his father’s words and to see the way he looked at him.
The next day when he went out, everyone in the village greeted him warmly. Cemal felt a rush of pride. He was their latest hero. Lean and sinewy, he bore the expression of a mature, experienced man and looked very different from the youth they had sent off to be a soldier. In spite of this, he was still their Cemal, and they sunned themselves in his reflected glory.
Turks and Kurds lived together in the village and had intermarried, so it was not easy to tell them apart. Men who completed their service in the Turkish army were welcomed back as heroes, and everyone wept at the funerals of those who died in combat. The families of boys like Memo, who joined the PKK, were insulted publicly but often supported secretly. When Cemal saw Rıza Efendi, Memo’s father, in front of the coffeehouse, he lowered his eyes. “Welcome, our Cemal,” the old man said. “God spared you for us.” Rıza Efendi’s words concealed a question, but Cemal pretended not to understand and walked hurriedly away.
The only direct question about Memo came from Gülizar, the midwife who had helped at the birth of both Cemal and Memo. Cemal told her that he had not set eyes on Memo and did not know whether he was alive or dead.
After a few days, the excitement and warmth of the homecoming vanished. It soon became clear, first to his family, then to the whole village, that Cemal had changed. He hardly touched the food prepared especially for him, not even his favorite dish cooked for him by his aunt. He had become accustomed to being in the mountains and preferred to lie wrapped in a thick blanket on the stones in the courtyard, or in a corner of the garden, rather than on the soft mattress his mother prepared for him. Every day, he woke up at the first light of day, and the slightest sound—the flip-flop of a slipper, a cough, or the creak of a door—caused him to jump up in terror. One morning, Cemal’s mother went to the coop to pick out a chicken to cook that day. Suddenly, Cemal grabbed the chicken from her hands, saying, “I’ll do it,” and ripped off the creature’s head with one twist of his hands while his mother looked on in consternation.
When Cemal noticed that Meryem was not around, his mother told him she was guilty of a grave sin and had been locked up in the barn. He shrugged his shoulders and asked no further questions.
Most days, Cemal walked up and down the garden for hours or strolled under the poplars, gazing up at the sky. His mother was worried, but there was no use trying to discuss Cemal’s behavior with her husband, because the old man spent all his time chanting with his disciples.
The sheikh wanted his son to participate in the religious rites, too. Cemal went to the hut, chanted repetitively to the point of ecstasy, then lost consciousness. The rituals did not touch him, and he promised himself that he would not come again. He scolded himself for such thoughts, but the whole thing seemed nonsensical. His heart was like a dry twig with no feeling in it for such devotions.
Cemal often withdrew to his room with paper and pen bought from the village shop to write letters to friends he had made while on military service. Most of these consisted of accustomed formulas and generalities and did not include any personal details. Only those to Selahattin were rich with information.
At night when he lay down in the courtyard, Cemal barely spared a thought for Meryem in the nearby barn. Most of his memories of that thin, weak girl who, in his childhood, had always been underfoot, had vanished. Meryem was a stranger now, and Cemal cared neither to inquire about her faults nor to ask why she had been locked up in the barn.
Then one night in the garden, half-asleep under his rough blanket, he heard the muffled sound of crying coming from the barn. For the first time, he began to wonder about the little girl in the dark barn and the reason for her misery and tears.
LAST FAREWELLS
Meryem heard the door of her prison creak and a tall figure enter the barn. It was her cousin Cemal. “Meryem?” he called out, but she was not able to reply. Her throat was too hoarse for her to speak a word, although she tried.
Cemal called her again, only to be met once more with silence. Then he stepped forward, took her hand, and gently led her outside. The courtyard was dark and deserted. Everyone in the house was asleep. Cemal opened both sides of the main gate, which was used for the sheep and cows each evening and the laden carts at harvesttime. For some reason, he did not open the smaller door in the gate, through which people generally entered or left the courtyard.
Cemal led Meryem out. After so many days in the barn, Meryem heard a cock crow. “Listen, Cemal, a rooster is crowing,” she said.
Cemal laughed and started walking with big strides. He moved so fast that Meryem could hardly keep up with him. She was soon breathless. They had come to the outskirts of the village and were heading for the steep hill.
“Where are we going, Cemal?” Meryem asked.
“Over the hill … to Istanbul.”
Meryem was elated. She would not have to kill herself. “They are sending me to Istanbul,” she thought, “just like the other girls.” The image of the majestic city she had seen in her dreams stretching toward infinity formed itself in front of her eyes, and she was full of joy.
They were nearing the top of the hill now. Panting, Meryem took another step forward and heard someone say, “This is the city of your dreams.” She turned to see who was speaking, but no one was there.
At that minute Meryem realized that she was there in the barn, alone, and she began to weep silently. She was damned. A miracle was out of the question. The extraordinary things that happened to others were not part of her world. Neither Holy Hızır on his ash gray horse, nor Cemal would come to rescue her. Even Bibi had abandoned her.
As Meryem sat there sobbing, Cemal was discussing her fate with his father and uncle in the house a short distance away. “You’ve come back a hero, my son,” said the sheikh. “Your return has pleased us. But that girl—may she go to hell—has ruined our honor!”
Cemal nodded, but he was not paying attention. He was thinking about Selahattin. His friend’s wounds must have healed by now. Selahattin had given Cemal his address in Istanbul and told him to come to visit him. “Don’t forget me when you’ve been discharged,” he had said, “or, by God, I’ll come and find you.” But Istanbul was far away, and Cemal was penniless. How could he go there?
Cemal heard his father’s words only in fragments. “Our family doesn’t deserve this!” cried the old man. “But what can we do? It’s our fate.”
Cemal remained silent.
Immersed in his own thoughts, Uncle Tahsin said nothing, either.
Then something Cemal heard grabbed his attention.
“You must go to Istanbul, my son,” said the sheikh. “This girl is guilty in the sight of both God and man. If the bitch doesn’t wag its tail, the dog doesn’t follow … who knows what else she’s been up to on the sly? You know what the custom is, and it’s up to you to put things right. I know you’ve just returned home, but we can’t wait any longer. Everyone is talking about us and ridiculing our family! There’s no other man in the family capable of carrying out this task.”
Cemal at first thought it was just another of his father’s moralizing speeches, but then he realized what he was being asked to do. Startled at first, he then withdrew into his usual impassive self. It was as if everything was happening somewhere else. His father’s words held little importance for him. Meryem had to be done away with, and he was the one chosen to do it. That was all. It was nothing to make a great song and dance over. What was a human being anyway—just a creature that took only a second to die.
Of course, the deed could not be done in the village. “You’d be caught and put in jail immediately,” said the sheikh. “Take the bitch to Istanbul and finish her off there, far away, just as it has happened to other girls. You could stay at Yakup’s for a few days. Get rid of her in the big city, where no one will notice you, it’s so crowded. Or, do it on the road … but don’t get caught.”
Cemal found his father’s detailed plans tiresome. What was the point of talking about such a simple thing? He pitied the girl for a minute, but everyone knew that customs are customs and had to be followed. Meryem had no chance to survive. Even if her father forgave her, and the sheikh did not interfere, she still could not live. Even if everyone in the village came together to forgive her, she could not be saved. More important, by taking Meryem to Istanbul, Cemal would get the opportunity to see Selahattin.
Tahsin Agha was grimly silent. He had not uttered a word during the sheikh’s speech. He did not say anything to support his older brother but just sat there in troubled silence.
The women of the house were silent, too. They remained busy with their chores, one of which was stuffing a bag with Meryem’s few belongings.
Early the next day, Döne entered the barn. “Get up,” she said gruffly, rousing Meryem, “you’re leaving. You’re going to Istanbul.”
Meryem could almost have hugged the woman she hated. The miracle she had been waiting for had happened. “When am I going?” she asked.
“Right away.”
“Let me kiss the hands of my father and my aunt and ask for their blessing.”
“No!” Döne hissed. “You’ll not see anyone. Let’s go! You’re leaving now.”
Döne thrust a bag and a frayed green sweater into Meryem’s hands.
Without heeding Döne’s words, Meryem ran up the stairs and into the courtyard. The bright sunlight blinded her momentarily, but she did not stop. She ran into the house, crying out for her aunt. But all the rooms were locked. She knelt in front of one of the closed doors, sobbing desperately. “Auntie, please open the door! Let me kiss your hand! Give me your blessing.”
Meryem’s aunt had been like a mother to her, caring for her and teaching her about life and the right way of doing things. When Meryem had started school, her aunt had taught her to read. Although her aunt had taken pains to care for her, Meryem had always felt a certain coldness, even dislike, in her behavior. The woman performed her duties punctiliously, but when Meryem felt sleepy and wanted to put her head on her knees, she would always find an excuse to push her niece away.
Her aunt’s door was locked now, and no matter how much Meryem pleaded, it did not open. She had to face the fact that both the door and the house were closed to her forever. She had been expelled from the house where she was born without anyone bidding her farewell or wishing her luck.
Meryem heard Döne’s harsh voice, and she rose and walked out of the house, tightening her scarf around her head. Cemal was standing in the courtyard, casually smoking a cigarette. He was different somehow, like a stranger. He looked taller and older, no longer the boy with whom she used to roll a hoop. “Brother Cemal,” she murmured softly. He gave no answer but began to walk toward the village. Meryem followed him without a word.
Spring was coming. The snow had begun to melt, making the ground spongy. At each step, Meryem’s thin plastic shoes stuck in the mud. The sun seemed very bright to her eyes, grown used to half darkness for so long. It was not easy to say whether they were merely watering or she was, in fact, weeping.
As Cemal and Meryem passed through the marketplace, Mukadder, the attorney, noticed them. He was sitting outside his office, enjoying the sun and playing backgammon with his friends. When he saw Cemal followed by Meryem walking three paces behind, he stood up, along with the others, and walked toward him. “Hey, hero,” he called out, “are you off to Istanbul?”
“Yes,” Cemal replied brusquely, spitting the word out between his teeth.
Turning to Meryem, Mukadder smirked. “Well, well, aren’t you the lucky girl. Not everyone has the chance to see that city.”
His friends all laughed. There was something carnal in their grins.
Meryem wished she could disappear. Everyone in the marketplace had stopped their work. Men with big bellies and moustaches all gathered around them. They patted Cemal on the back and told Meryem how lucky she was. “You’ll probably forget this small village,” one said. “You won’t come back—just like the others. Why should you?”
Meryem was frightened. Since leaving the barn, a slight fear had started to take hold of her. She had grown accustomed to being defiant in the barn, but now she felt weak and vulnerable. For the first time in her life, she was the object of the villagers’ attention and felt ashamed of being the target of such interest. She imagined that the dogs were barking her name, the cats were meowing “Meryem,” and the birds were whistling at her.
Cemal and Meryem walked on with a group of villagers in tow. They passed the cloth shop, the bakery, the police station, and the mosque. As they neared the school, Cafer ran toward them. His mouth was crooked, and his eyes had a strange expression. The crowd began to laugh. Cafer ran up to Meryem, stared into her face for a long second before beginning to cry. A few of the villagers picked up stones and hurled them at the half-wit. “Beat it!” they shouted. “You should be going to Istanbul, too!”
Cafer yelped like a beaten dog and scurried away.
Meryem saw Müveddet and her daughter Nermin among a group of women walking along the road. They must be on their way to visit someone’s home, she thought. She dashed forward and grabbed Müveddet’s hands, pressing them to her lips. “I’m going to Istanbul,” she said. “Please give me your blessing.”
Müveddet hesitated briefly, and then hugged Meryem. “I know, dear girl,” she said. “Everyone knows you’re going there. God be with you.”