Honour (10 page)

A Village near the River Euphrates, 1961

Born and bred in Istanbul, Adem only left the city for the first time when he was eighteen years old. Taking with him a suitcase full of clean underwear, lavender cologne and a box of
baklava
, he got on a bus and arrived twenty-four hours later, drained and disorientated, at a south-western town he knew not much about. From there he travelled in the back of a lorry to a village that bordered the northern tip of Syria. This was where his brother Khalil had been doing his military service for the past five months.

His face tanned from the winter sun, Khalil had lost some weight, but the greatest change was in his demeanour. His eyes had acquired a thoughtful gleam and he seemed unusually reticent, as if wearing a uniform had altered his character. Even as he gladly accepted the underwear and cologne, he seemed more pensive than merry. Adem examined him with curiosity, for he, too, would become a soldier in about a year. Military service being compulsory, he had decided to do it as soon as he left secondary school. University wasn’t for him, and he couldn’t afford it anyway. Upon coming back from the army, he would find a job, get married and have six children – three boys, three girls. This, in a nutshell, was the future he had envisaged for himself.

When visiting hours were over, Adem left his brother in his garrison and rode a donkey back to the nearby village. Frozen earth, the colour of porridge, stretched out as far as the eye could see. Nature was resilient here, unyielding. Only as he was observing the landscape did it occur to him that he had forgotten to give Khalil the box of
baklava
.

Kismet
, he thought to himself.
Maybe it was for someone else
.

Upon arriving in the village Adem found the
muhtar
 – the headman. It was a lucky coincidence that his father had done business with him in the past. Though the two men hadn’t seen each other in many years, they had kept in touch through common friends. And so, prior to his trip, Adem had sent a postcard to his father’s acquaintance to notify him of his arrival. Worryingly, he had not had a reply.

‘Postcard? What card?’ yelled the headman when Adem knocked on his door. ‘I didn’t receive anything.’

He was a swarthy man, so tall that he had to stoop before walking in and out of doorways. A thick moustache curled upwards atop his lip, and his sideboards were slicked down with a substance that looked like oil.

‘I . . . I’m sorry . . . then I’d better go,’ said Adem.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I . . . look, I –’

‘No visitor has ever been unwelcome under this roof,’ roared the headman.

Slowly, it dawned on Adem that the Kurdish man was not angry with him. Nor was he shouting. His voice was naturally loud and husky, and his Turkish so unpractised that it made him sound enraged even when he wasn’t.

‘Well, thank you. It’s only for a night, really.’

‘A night? You cannot leave so soon! There is a wedding in two days. You must join us. Otherwise the groom’s family will be offended.’

How can they can be offended when they don’t even know me
, Adem wanted to ask. But the customs were different in this part of the country, and far more pronounced. Besides, he didn’t have any reason to hurry back to Istanbul. It wasn’t as if anyone there was desperate for him to return.

Weddings, joyful as they were, had long been a source of sadness for Adem, for they always reminded him of his mother, Aisha. Her name was not mentioned in their house any more; her photos had been destroyed as if she had never been. The lace she had tatted, the handkerchiefs she had embroidered, the necklaces that had once adorned her long neck, and the blouses, stockings and hairpins she had worn – all had been burned on a bonfire lit by Baba (the Drunk One).

So it was that Adem accepted the headman’s offer and remained in the village, gorging himself on fresh butter, cream and honey. The next afternoon, the headman dozed off after lunch, his wife and daughters immersed themselves in polishing the copper utensils in the house, and his sons became caught up in a backgammon tournament. Adem had seen his brother in the morning. The second visit had been shorter, though no less sentimental. Again he had forgotten the
baklava
. Now, having no interest in backgammon and for want of anything better to do, he decided to go out for a walk.

He strolled through the village, observing the rickety houses, the cracks in the walls, the children with dirt under their fingernails, the ruts left by carts and caravans that had crossed this land, never to return. It was bare and bleak but oddly beguiling. He came across a pack of stray dogs basking in the dirt, and one of them, a large canine with a tawny coat and bloodshot eyes, showed its teeth. The other dogs followed suit, snarling and growling, their ears pinned back. Adem turned around and began to run, even though he knew it would prompt the pack to chase him. Panting, he scrambled down mud tracks without a sense of direction, until he arrived at a sod house with chickens and hens in the front garden. There was someone sitting on the garden wall – half-girl, half-woman – who, upon closer inspection, was sniggering at his panic. Adem dashed towards her, and entered the garden without permission, taking refuge in her self-confidence.

Only seconds later the dogs reached the garden and hemmed him in on every side. One came dangerously close, crouching. Just as it was about to attack, the girl clapped her hands and shouted, in a voice mixed with authority and amusement, words that Adem could not comprehend. The effect was magical. One by one the animals sat down, their heads low, their tails between their legs.

Adem stared at his saviour, annoyed at having been rescued by a girl, but deeply relieved. She had a dimple in her left cheek, and large, liquid eyes, evenly spaced, the colour of a bottomless lake. In her hand was some kind of pastry, which she eagerly went back to devouring. He had never seen a girl with such an appetite.

‘You scared of dogs?’ she asked.

He didn’t respond.

‘If they know that, they’ll frighten you. Smart animals! My sister loves them.’ She leaned forward as if revealing a secret. ‘I don’t.’

She spoke Turkish with a heavy accent.
An ignorant Kurdish girl
, he thought.
Probably lice-infested
. He shot a glance at her neatly plaited hair, chestnut-brown with glints of gold and amber. So strong was the urge to touch her plaits that he raised his hand, but then stopped it in mid-air.

‘How is it that you know Turkish, when most people in the village don’t?’ he said.

‘I went to school. All my sisters did. Father insisted.’

Adem’s eyes scrutinized the house, inspecting the dresses, skirts and socks pegged to a line, drying. ‘How many sisters do you have?’

‘I’m the eighth girl in the family.’

‘Wow. And no boys?’

Shaking her head, she changed the subject. ‘Hey, would you like some? I made it.’

He took the piece of pastry she offered and sank his teeth into the rich, fluffy dough. He wasn’t expecting it to be so good. The dogs looked up expectantly, wagging their tails. Under their reproachful eyes, the two ate in silence, not knowing how to keep the conversation going.

‘I live in Istanbul,’ Adem said, when he found his voice again.

‘Really? Everybody says it’s beautiful.’

‘True,’ Adem answered with a trace of pride. He decided he was beginning to like her. There was a lightness to her manner that he found fascinating, and the ease with which she spoke soothed him.

‘May I ask you something?’ she said suddenly, and went on without waiting for an answer. ‘Is it true that the cobblestones of Istanbul are made of gold?’

What kind of a girl was this, Adem wondered – brave enough to confront a pack of wild dogs but so naive as to believe in such nonsense. Yet he was smitten by her charm, and heard himself say, ‘Yes, they are. If you were to marry someone like me, you could come to Istanbul to see for yourself.’

She blushed. ‘Why would I marry you?’

‘Because I can take you far away.’

‘I don’t want to go afar. There is more than enough here.’

He was still considering how to respond when they heard a woman’s voice coming from the house. She jumped to her feet and stood facing him, holding his eyes with the intensity of her stare. Then she turned to the dogs and, shaking a finger, shouted, ‘Leave him alone.’

As soon as she disappeared, Adem began to inch his way out of the garden. The leader of the pack watched him intently, and, just as he passed by, it growled, giving him such a jolt that he dropped what remained of the pastry. Dismayed, he looked at the mushy mess on the ground, the sugar mingling with the soil.

There were no golden pavements in Istanbul. Or anywhere else in the world. No dreams to pursue. Such things existed solely in legends and fairy tales. The real world with its real people resembled a mixture of sugar and soil, and was, more or less, of the same taste. Didn’t she know that?

*

The next day Adem attended the wedding, which was like nothing he had ever seen before. A courtyard filled to the brim with men of all ages sitting in a half-circle, a musician bashing away at his drum while another played the clarinet, children running around unattended, and women watching from the flat rooftops, their faces half covered, their hands hennaed. Adem noticed that the unmarried men were careful not to look upwards, and he did the same, keeping his eyes level.

Across from the entrance were the groom’s father and the bride’s father, sitting side by side but without exchanging a word. Depending on their rank or degree of proximity, relatives were positioned on either side. The bride and the groom were in the centre, where everybody could scrutinize them to their heart’s content. The groom had been newly shaved, and he smiled often. It was impossible to know how the bride felt, for her face was hidden under a glittery, crimson veil. From time to time a woman tiptoed close, bringing her something to drink. Together they lifted her veil ever so slightly so that she could sip without spilling anything on to her clothes, and without being seen.

Adem was planning to sit in a quiet corner when the headman spotted him and bellowed, patting the seat beside him. ‘City-boy, come next to me.’

So he did. He sat there good-humouredly, enjoying the celebration, until the man next to him pulled out his gun and began to fire it in the air. Immediately, others followed. The sound was deafening. One of the bullets hit the roof of a house near by and left a hole there, dust showering from the boards. Fearful of being shot, Adem glanced around in panic, and in the swirl of chaos he caught his breath at the sight of her, standing on a flat roof, looking at him, calm and composed, as if she were aware of being the only serene thing in a world out of control.

As soon as the shooting subsided Adem excused himself to look for a toilet, though what he really wanted was to find a way to talk to her. No sooner had he walked out of the main gate than he spotted her, sitting by a well, immersed in preparing a huge pot of yoghurt drink. When had she come down from the roof?

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said.

She gave him a cold glare. ‘What are you talking about?’

It occurred to Adem that she was pretending not to have seen him before, for reasons of modesty and reserve that were, no doubt, required of a young woman in a place such as this. He decided to play along. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded. You don’t know me, of course. My name is Adem. May I learn yours?’

‘And why should I tell you my name?’ she snapped, her lips twisted in a scowl, a dimple in her right cheek.

Her eyes were different today, the same and yet altered, glowing with a condescending sparkle, or so it seemed to him. For a sinking moment he suspected she was making fun of him. He excused himself and ambled away.

When he returned, having taken a leak behind a bush and calmed somewhat, she was no longer by the well. The bride was leaving for her new house, mounted on an ivory horse that was pulled by a boy, so that she, too, would bear sons. The animal’s mane was decorated with scarlet ribbons and evil-eye beads, its tail braided. While a group of children and a number of women followed the horse, ululating and clapping, the male guests prepared to sit down for the wedding dinner. Large, round, copper trays were carried inside by youngsters. As he strode back, Adem could smell the flat bread and meat. Upon entering the courtyard, he saw her again. She seemed in a hurry, carrying a crying toddler.

‘Why are you angry at me?’ he asked, blocking her way.

‘What? Why should I be angry at you?’ she said with a peal of laughter. Even the child in her arms seemed engrossed, suddenly quiet.

‘Then why didn’t you tell me your name?’

Tucking a lock of hair into her loosely tied scarf, she smiled. ‘Because you didn’t ask. But, since you are now, it’s Jamila.’

He nodded, grateful.

‘What about your name?’

‘But I told you a minute ago,’ he said in a throaty whisper.

A bemused look crossed her face. ‘Maybe you talked to Pembe, my twin sister. When did you see her?’

As if prompted by the question, the shooting started again. The child broke into a wail, and Jamila had to rush her out of the courtyard. Adem stood there, feeling slightly dizzy but also relieved. A twin! Yes, that explained it all. The harsh demeanour, the frosty stare. That was not Jamila. Not
his
Jamila.

In the evening Adem stood by the window and watched the moonlight crest on the roofs, shedding silver streaks across the village. The house lights resembled glints of cigarette tips in the dark. He had missed Istanbul and was glad that he would be leaving soon. Yet what was he going to do without Jamila?

He went to see the headman, whom he found in his nightgown, smoking his pipe. There was an oil lamp beside him, which reflected shadows across the walls, creating hollows under his eyes. ‘I want to give you this
baklava
and thank you for your hospitality and –’

‘Ah, I cannot eat that. I wish I could,’ the headman said wearily. ‘Diabetes.’