Gardens of Water (54 page)

“Yes,” Sinan said, hurt by his son’s innocent statement. “You’re right. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Marcus Bey taught me. But I’m supposed to bump it with my chest and then stop it with my foot. That’s the hardest part,” he said. “Stopping it.”

“What else did he teach you?”

“Nothing,”
smail said. “Just that. He’s nice.”

“Get the ball and let’s play.”

“You can’t play.”

“What, you think I’m too old?”

“Yes, a thousand years too old.” But he was running into the darkness toward the ball. He vanished for a minute and then reappeared, running full speed into the light, his skinny legs like little matchsticks pushing the ball ahead of him.

Then
smail suddenly stopped and did a fancy behind-the-back kick that sent the ball rocketing toward Sinan. He stopped it with his good foot and bounced awkwardly on his bad one until he was able to return the ball. It was a soft kick that only made it halfway to the boy.
smail ran to it and kicked it back, and without saying a word remained standing closer to his father.

They kicked the ball back and forth a few times, and the simplicity of the action—he and his son tapping a ball to each other—flooded Sinan with love. It was such a pure feeling that he wished he had spent more time doing this. It struck him that perhaps it was not his leg that kept him from playing football with his son, but his seriousness, his obsession with work, and the way he had let everyday burdens become more important than simple joys.
smail kicked the ball a few feet to the right of Sinan, and he tried to run to get it but he stumbled and fell.

“Are you hurt, Baba?”

“No, shoot it again.”

“It’s okay.”

“Shoot again,
smail.”

smail kicked the ball softly, but Sinan’s foot hurt now and when he put weight on it he tripped and fell again.

“Kick it again,
smail.” He felt, for some reason, that if they could just keep kicking the ball to each other in the lights everything would be fine.

“It’s all right, Baba.”

“No. Again.”

But
smail was already at his side. “I’m tired.”

They sat in the grass together and watched the boys flit and dodge toward the water-jug goalposts. They pushed one another, all elbows and flailing hands, and dashed across the field like insects fluttering in lamplight.
smail, tired though he said he was, bounced the ball between his outstretched feet. Sinan waited; the boy was working himself up to a big question, and Sinan didn’t want to scare him out of it.

“Baba,” he said. “How come God gave you that foot?”

“I can’t speak for God,
smail.” It wasn’t the question Sinan expected. “But if God can do anything, why wouldn’t he give you a perfect foot?”

“Sometimes God has reasons we can’t understand, and we have to accept them.”

“Seems mean,”
smail said.

“God is not mean,
smail.” He made sure his son was looking at him. “God is love and He is merciful and He is kind.”