Bliss: A Novel (17 page)

When the old woman finished her story, the young man across from her said that he could understand a mother’s pain, but that terrorists had been using the strike for political propaganda. All hell had then broken loose—just as Cemal entered the compartment.

“What kind of person are you?” Seher was shouting at the young man. “Hundreds of young people are dying. Besides doing nothing to help them, you tell a mother her son’s a terrorist! What right have you to say such things?”

“Wasn’t your brother arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act?” replied the young man calmly.

“My brother isn’t a terrorist. He never joined in any of their activities.”

“Why was he arrested then? Wasn’t it for terrorism?”

The young man was an aggressive, quarrelsome type, whom his wife strove in vain to keep quiet.

“My brother worked for a student association and read books,” Seher retorted. “That’s all.”

“But this law only punishes terrorists.”

“Ten thousand people are in jail because of that law,” Seher yelled, “and nine thousand of them are there because they wrote slogans on walls, read certain books, or set up student associations! You have no feelings.”

Seher’s mother tried to calm her down. “Don’t get upset,” she pleaded. “Keep calm.”

Silently smoking his cigarette, Seher’s father looked on without taking any part in the argument, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Student associations?” the young man sneered. “I know what kind of students they are!”

“What do you know?” Seher exploded. “Have you ever met my brother?”

“No, not your brother, but I’ve come face-to-face with those like him. I’ve fought against them. I know their type.”

Seher’s mother suddenly reached over and covered her daughter’s mouth with her hand. It was clear that the man was either a policeman, a member of the secret service, or part of a special military unit. She did not want more trouble.

But Seher could neither forgive nor forget the insult. Her brother was on the brink of death, and her parents’ hearts were breaking. Turning to Cemal, she cried, “You were a soldier, brother. This girl said so. Is it right to throw such insults at a heartbroken mother? My brother’s an angel. He’s never even seen a gun, much less used one.”

Cemal did not know what to say. He could never find words in such situations.

“Where did you do your military service?” the young man suddenly inquired. When Cemal told him, he asked, “Were you involved in much action?”

Cemal nodded.

The man held out his hand. “My name’s Ekrem. I’m on duty in the State of Emergency zone. This is my wife, Süheyla.”

He waited for a response, but Cemal did not extend his hand and remained silent.

The clatter of the train was the only sound to be heard.

Without warning, the old man, who had been sitting there so quietly during the altercation, suddenly spat in Ekrem’s face.

Everyone was stunned.

Ekrem jumped up immediately, utterly furious. He grabbed the old man with one hand and made as if to reach for his pistol with the other. The old man took no notice of his gesture and even had a slight smile on his face.

“Don’t hurt him, please, sir!” begged the wife of the old man, taking hold of Ekrem’s arm. “He’s sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.… He’s out of his mind! Here, look at the doctor’s report!”

Ekrem hesitated. His wife was pulling at his other arm. “Can’t you see he’s ill?” she appealed. “He’s not worth it.”

Ekrem threw the old man back in his seat, opened the compartment door, and walked out.

A happy smile lit up Seher’s face. Even her mother looked pleased. Her father, pathetic as he was, had gotten his revenge. “Rotten official!” she cursed. “Thanks to our taxes, he gets a salary!”

“You’d better shut up,” warned Ekrem’s wife. “You were lucky I stopped him. He can cause you trouble.”

“What can he do!” said Seher in a surly tone.

“I’m telling you. You’d better keep quiet.”

A few minutes later, Ekrem returned to the compartment with the conductor. “Get up,” he said, looking at Seher and her parents. “There’s a sick woman outside. We need your seats for her.”

He pointed to the corridor where the sick woman’s husband was supporting the woman’s head and looking curiously into the compartment.

“This gentleman’s right,” agreed the conductor. “We need you to give up your seats.”

“Why our seats?” Seher protested. “What about the seats over there?”

“There are two separate families on this side,” Ekrem said. “There are four of us, and my wife’s not feeling well. We can switch places later,” he said, hiding a grin.

“Come on,” said Seher’s mother. “Let’s go. Don’t argue with these people.”

Taking their luggage off the rack, they left the compartment.

The sick woman was carried into the compartment and put down carefully on the green leather seat. She was one of those Anatolian village women of indeterminate age who could have been either thirty or fifty. A piece of cloth was swathed around her head. It was obvious that she was in great pain. Her husband and two children hunched down on their heels below her.

“God bless you!” the man said to Ekrem.

But Ekrem ignored him. He was still burning with anger. “Don’t let them fool you, brother,” he told Cemal. “They’re all red-hot communists. They don’t know what ‘family’ is. Women like that old hag aren’t mothers.… They’re all Kurdish rebels! This land belongs to the Turks. Whoever calls himself a Kurd, Alawite, or Leftist should get the hell out of here!”

Ekrem lit a cigarette and offered another to Cemal.

The sick woman’s husband opened the basket beside him and took out some bread and cheese. “Have some,” he offered.

When nobody wanted any, he rolled a piece of cheese up in the bread and began to eat. He did not look at his wife, who was moaning.

“Won’t you give some to your wife?” Süheyla asked him.

“No. She can’t swallow. I’m taking her to Ankara for an operation. Her brother works at a hospital there.”

As soon as he swallowed the last of his bread, the man fell asleep and began to snore loudly. The train rattled on into the night.

Meryem’s legs were numb. She wanted to stand up and walk a little, but was afraid of waking up Cemal, who was sleeping next to her. He had done hardly anything but sleep since they started on their journey.

Plucking up all her courage, Meryem slowly got to her feet and tiptoed toward the door. She had taken no more than two steps when Cemal asked, “Where are you off to?”

“Just into the corridor.”

When he did not object, Meryem slid the door open and went out.

It was empty. Seher and her parents must have gone to another carriage to find seats, not wanting to give Ekrem the satisfaction of seeing them sit on the floor.

The train was rushing along at great speed as she had realized once she stepped out into the corridor. The swaying carriage creaked and groaned, making a tremendous noise. Holding on to the wall, Meryem walked to the end of the corridor and found the toilet. As soon as she entered, she looked in the mirror, comparing herself to Seher. With her eyes outlined with kohl and her uncovered hair falling to her shoulders, Seher was a pretty girl. The official’s wife used makeup of various kinds on her eyes and cheeks so she looked beautiful, too. Her hair was not covered either.

Meryem untied her scarf, letting her long hair go free. But it was sticky and tangled; a long time had passed since Bibi washed it.

Abruptly, she bent over the washbasin and began to wash her hair, using the small piece of soap lying on the side of the basin. After doing her best to rinse it in the trickle of water that came from the tap, she tied her scarf around her wet hair and, just before leaving the toilet, pinched her cheeks to make them red. Yet Meryem knew that no matter what she did, she would not look like the other girls as long as she was wearing her horrible clothes. She had noticed every detail of their well-kept hands, polished fingernails, shining hair, bright necklaces, and the big watches that made their wrists look so slim. She imagined herself in a tight black skirt like Süheyla’s. Excited by the thought, she wondered if she would dress like that in Istanbul and become as pretty as Süheyla and Seher. Meryem remembered her grandmother’s words: “eyes that outshine the sun.” Yes, her eyes were different, but, alone, they were worth nothing. No one would notice the brightness of any eyes under a dingy headscarf.

Meryem opened the toilet door and stepped out. She saw Cemal standing in the corridor, silently smoking. He was frowning. Should she say nothing and just pass by him quietly? What else could she do? Wishing she were invisible, she walked forward to go past him. “Stop,” he said suddenly, stepping in front of her and taking her by the arm.

Meryem was surprised and relieved. Cemal had begun to talk to her again. She did not mind what he said, even if he got angry and scolded her. She just wanted him to talk.

The train swayed suddenly, and Meryem held on to the rail in front of the window.

“Look, girl,” said Cemal. “This is the door of the train.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Meryem before she could stop herself. “That’s how we got on last night.” It seemed to her that Cemal became a little angrier.

Suddenly, Cemal opened the door, and a rush of wind and deafening noise filled the corridor. Cemal bent forward and looked out. Almost immediately, he pulled his head in, gasping for breath. “Here, take a look,” he ordered Meryem.

Meryem, uncertain whether it was some kind of game like the ones they had played in the old days, was afraid to lean out, but felt she had no other choice.

Clinging to the side of the door, she leaned forward, thrusting her head out. The wind whipped her face, and the train’s whistle screeched, terrifying her. She could feel something in her eye and quickly drew herself back inside, fearing she would smash her head against something in the dark.

Cemal stood there wordless, looking away, as though ashamed of something.

“There’s something in my eye, Cemal,” Meryem whimpered, her eyes filling with tears. “It hurts.… Can you take a look at it?”

Cemal turned and walked away without a word.

THE ISLAND SUSPENDED IN AIR

After many days at sea, İrfan opened his eyes at dawn one morning and saw a miracle in the shape of a cone-shaped island ascending toward the sky in front of him. It did not touch the sea but floated in the air above the water, as if suspended by divine power. Only in a painting by René Magritte could something like this happen, created by the magic genius of an artist who could change the dimensions and appearance of an object by disregarding gravity.

The professor had never seen an island suspended in the air, not even in his dreams. Shrouded in mist, this gigantic, scrub-covered piece of rock hung there between sea and sky.

“I must be losing my mind,” he thought, yet he did not feel afraid. He weighed anchor and started to sail toward the island. He wanted to land on that fairy-tale rock but, unfortunately, the rising sun was slowly reducing it to an ordinary island. The mist that concealed the shoreline where it met the sea gradually disappeared, and it turned into one of several thousand similar Aegean islands. The transformation did not diminish İrfan’s delight in the miracle of the island floating on air that he had witnessed in the magic light of dawn.

Mythology could only have developed in this kind of environment, he thought. The Aegean Sea was full of wonders: the ever-changing color of the water, the divine rays of light that shot through the clouds in late afternoon, and the enchanting smell … that vitalizing scent, which could inspire one to do all sorts of wild and extraordinary things, making one feel happy just to be alive.

İrfan had lost track of the days since he had not bothered to keep count of them. His only contact with the shore was when from time to time he stopped in small coastal towns to pick up provisions. It was as if all dimensions of time and place had vanished. He went wherever the wind blew him. In his former life, he had used this saying metaphorically, but now it was literal.

The wind was mainly in his favor but, occasionally, he had to start the engine to escape some pressing danger, but he did so with great reluctance. Using the engine was shameful to a true sailor. He also had to use the sails, in a sometimes-unbecoming way, as he had realized after a couple of days that the Aegean Sea was not without its dangers. This sea was also a theater of war, where Turkish and Greek navies tested their strengths. Some of the Greek islands were so close to the Turkish coast that it was often difficult to recognize which piece of land belonged to whom. The Greeks prohibited boats from coming within three miles of their shores, and if the professor accidentally crossed the line, a Greek assault boat would immediately rush out of Mytilene or Samos and race toward him. Then, if he hurried too quickly toward the mainland, the Turkish Coast Guard would become suspicious.

In some places, not even half a mile separated the Turkish coast from the Greek islands. For instance, one could easily swim from Samos to the cape near
Ku
adası
. İrfan passed through the strait there easily, without being chased. Perhaps there, geography overruled the regulations.