Motherland Hotel

by Yusuf Atilgan

  He sat up and got out of bed, went to the bathroom and came back. While dressing he hesitated between the two sweaters, then chose the pale green. He combed his hair and opened the window. After making his bed he went over to the maid’s room, but paused in opening her door. There was no cooking today. She had nothing to do but clean up the rooms. For the first time in ten years he let her sleep.

  He took the breakfast tray into the pantry and brushed his teeth. Back in his chair again he opened up the register to begin making entries from last night’s forms. Finishing with the second floor he came to Room 6. She was to be woken at eight. The woman reminded him of his fifth grade teacher. Young and gentle. Muhittin the Kurd, a boy who sold simits out on the street before coming to school in the morning, had nicknamed him “Seedless.” The principal had come into class one day and given the boy a beating. This same boy had made up a rhyme to taunt him with. Muhittin used to sing,“His mother thought she bore a son, but Zeberjet kneads buns.” He wrote down the name of the woman in Room 6, wondering what the fifth grade teacher was teaching now, and how the older boys could pay attention. Saïdé. Zeberjet’s mother had been frail. She’d been born in this house, in what was now Room 6, and apparently her own mother had died shortly after the birth. As for her father, a relative of the Kechejis, he was supposed to have run off. She might even have been illegitimate, the issue of Rüstem Bey’s father and one of the semi-adopted servant girls. It seems that Hashim Bey never let these girls alone. Even when he was past sixty, the one who brought coffee to his room (and whose place at night was in the attic beside Kadriye the Chief Maid) would get her breasts and bottom pinched. She had kept quiet about it until one day he forced her down onto the big cushion and she finally called for help. His daughter-in-law was the first to come running, and handled the situation with dismayed respect. Later on, unconstrained senility overtook him. Seeing a woman, he would take out his huge puckered member and beckon to her, “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. After all, we’re married.” They locked him up in what was later to become the third-floor bathroom, and that’s where he died.

  Someone was moving around upstairs. He wrote down the names for Room 9 and shut the register. Registers from previous years were stored in a chest under the stairs together with some thick history books of his father’s, printed in the old Arabic script. Once Zeberjet was out of grade school his father had taught him this script. “You’ll learn fast. It only took me ten days to get the new alphabet down.” Zeberjet’s father had been a clerk with Vital Statistics. During the War of Liberation he had not been mobilized. He hailed from Adana, where his own father ran a hotel on lease. One day during school hours the hotel had collapsed in a mild earthquake. Father and mother, little brother and sister, all had died in the ruins. After school, he had stayed with his aunt for a while and worked at a hotel before going over to Statistics. After leaving Adana and settling in his new town, he had prepared the birth-certificate entry and booklet for Rüstem Bey’s third daughter. The two men became acquainted, and sometimes they would play backgammon in the café at night. A third party had arranged the marriage. One evening there was an invitation to dinner at the manor house, and they had opened a door just enough to give a glimpse of the woman who was to be Zeberjet’s mother. He had assented, and a year before the Greeks came they were married. She was twenty-two at the time, he thirty-eight.

  At eight he woke the teachers and in another half hour they came down.

  “We’ll send for our luggage. It’s been a very nice week in your hotel. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  The man put out his hand and Zeberjet shook it, but didn’t look at the woman’s face in shaking hands with her. She had plump fingers. When she let go he put his hand behind him. Was it sweaty? The man laid a ten on the desk.

  “You forgot to charge for the tea yesterday.”

  They had asked for tea in their room on Sunday. Sitting across from one another at the table when he went up, they’d been correcting papers.

  “That was on the house. No charge.”

  “Thank you.”

  He watched them leave. At night she had said, “How I’m yours.” There must be other women on earth who talked to their men that way. Wanting a cigarette, he reached in the righthand pocket by mistake.

  As he was stretching his legs in the lobby with everyone but the Retired Officer gone, the newsboy arrived. Zeberjet went to his desk and took the forms from their drawer to hand over. Thus the fact that the woman off the delayed train from Ankara had stayed in Room 1 on Thursday night went undocumented. He had racked his brains for nothing all this time. Any woman’s name would have done, really. But only if she gave it herself. Before three days were out she’d be back to do that. He sat down and was about to reach for the newspaper when he changed his mind, opened the drawer instead, took out the cash and went over to open the safe. There was a single lira left in the upper bowl. He transferred this coin to the lower one and then switched the bowls, after which he took a ten and a five from the sheaf of bills in his hand and put them in his back pocket. The rent went into the hotel envelope and he shut the safe. There were footsteps on the stairs. At the landing, with its window facing the back yard, the maid stopped with face averted.

  “What happened, agha?”

  “Nothing happened. You were worn out yesterday so I let you sleep. Tidy up the rooms and change the sheets in 6.”

  She came down and got some sheets from the pantry. As she was passing him she hesitated and looked up before going on toward the stairs. Maybe she had noticed. The handkerchief under her pillow would be enough.

  In the lobby that afternoon as they sat reading (not that he read much, really. A headline or two, a few uncomprehended lines of print—the newspaper was a blank to him) the door opened and they both looked up. It was someone for the luggage. Zeberjet took the key off its hook and showed the man upstairs. The room was bright, with the gold-fringed maroon curtain pulled back. She had left hers drawn, and forgotten to turn off the light. “These things must be full of bricks,” said the man. They went out and Zeberjet opened the main door for him. Coming back to sit down he took up the paper. If she arrived on the 6:40 the Retired Officer would be out. But she might come before then, since dolmushes had been making runs to the village and back for the last five or six years. It was a large village, nearby on the plain. When his father was alive he’d gone there once on a summer’s day when he was fifteen, invited by Ömer; “Just ask where the Black Mustafas live.” She must have gone through that same square too, with its fountain. The men sitting out in front of the cafe would stare. In a long vineyard they’d eaten sweet-smelling grapes and they had fished in the Kumçay. There were oxen lying in their path and Ömer had skipped across on their backs, without the beasts even stirring. Zeberjet, shoes and pants in hand, had taken the long way around while Ömer and the herdsman laughed. It was the final year of the war, when bread was scarce. That evening as he was leaving they had wrapped him a home-baked loaf, fresh from the backyard oven. Was it 6:40 so soon? He looked over where the Retired Officer had his face in the paper. One reason the man got on his nerves might be that he was a former officer. “Zeberjet, son of Ahmet!” “Yes, sir.” “Pipe down, we’re not deaf in here.” After six months in that company the captain had made him his orderly, having asked one day what he did in civilian life. There was another hotel clerk, but the captain picked Zeberjet. The house was a large one, with a room just off the entryway where he slept. All morning long like a maid…. The captain’s wife and her aged sister would talk freely when he was there, paying him no attention. Once a month when they went to the Turkish bath he would carry the bundle and wait at a cafe across the street for them to come out. The cafe owner and his helper would tease him. “Four glasses of strong tea for the ladies.” “Who’s going to take it in, you?” “I should live so long. With that stew-faced biddy at the door?” “Look at him blush, would you? Come night time….” The women always took their two little
sons along. The smaller baby-talked, called him Gebejet. Zeberjet’s father never knew he was an orderly. The reason he gave for using the home address of a friend was that mail received through company channels was opened. Zeberjet’s letters were almost all alike. He often asked for money: his rifle barrel would get pitted, or his canteen stolen, or his bayonet would break. Once or twice a week he’d pay an afternoon visit to the brothel, going around behind, where it was always that gap-toothed older woman who opened the window. “It’s for you, girl,” she would call. “Here’s my little soldier.” And they’d pull him through by the arms. Sometimes his regular would be upstairs with someone and he’d have to sit and wait. “She’s been at it a while, cousin.” They’d all have a laugh. He never knew which of the men going up and down had been the one. When she finally came down she’d speak in a listless tone that failed to match her words. “Here’s my little soldier.”

  “What was that?”

  He caught himself and answered: “Nothing, sir.”

  While he was eating supper he noticed the maid by the staircase, leaning against the banister and waiting.

  “Go on upstairs and sleep.”

  She bowed her head and made no answer. He was rushing his meal. The beans were overcooked.

  “There was a dish you made with corn flour. Why don’t you try that again?”

  “You mean kachamak? All right.”

  He went to the pantry with the uneaten bread, which he put in a pan, then washed his lips and looked in the mirror. He brushed his teeth once again and walked out, shutting the door. Before taking away his tray the maid wiped off the desk. He sat down and lit a cigarette. How many did that make? He had gotten over coughing. Outside, footsteps went by now and then. He was putting out his cigarette when he heard the train. “Hello, is my room free? Is my room free? Is the room free? Hello, is the room free? Is my room free? Is the room free? Is there a vacant…? Hello, is there a vacant? Good evening, is there a vacant room? Good evening, is my room free? Hello….” He shook himself and stood up to straighten his jacket and then came round to the front of the desk, on which he rested his right hand, waiting. He counted backwards from a hundred to thirty-three. There was no need to panic. She might not even come tomorrow. He withdrew his hand from the desktop and went over to empty the Retired Officer’s ashtray. As he was replacing it the door opened and two men came in, one middle-aged, the other youthful.

  “Do you have a double room?”

  “Yes.”

  He went to the desk and asked for their IDs. The older man took both from his pocket and showed them. The last names matched.

  “Room 5 on the second floor. Shall I give you the key now?”

  “No, we’ll come back later.”

  They left. Until the recent past, Zeberjet had given the clientele little scrutiny. Anyone who wasn’t blind drunk could have a bed. He’d pretend not to recognize the prostitutes who showed up sometimes playing man-and-wife with a customer, and would give them a double bed in Room 2 or 6, where actual married couples stayed. As for the young men who occasionally appeared with their middle-aged (and usually ill-at-ease) “fathers” or “uncles,” he let them have rooms with twin beds. These husband-wife, father-son and uncle-nephew pairs were quiet and always left early in the morning. But he’d been leery of male couples ever since an incident five months before. One night in mid-May an elderly man had come in rather late with a sweet-looking young blond boy. “Have you got a double room?” He’d written down the names they gave and presented the key. “Second floor, Room 5 on the right.” When, after turning the lights off around midnight and climbing the stairs, he had paused by their door to listen, the conversation (“that’s right…and his”) had been unintelligible. He had continued on up to the attic, undressed, and gone into the maid’s room. As he was lying down someone had cried out below, twice. By the time he rushed into his clothes and hurried down the whole hotel was up, with five or six men collected at the door of Room 5 in their underwear. “It came from in there.” “Should we break in?” “Let’s call the police. Isn’t there a phone somewhere?” “Here’s the hotelkeeper,” said one of them, “make way.” Knocking, he had asked through the door, “Did you call out?” “It’s all right, the boy was having a nightmare.” “Do you take us for idiots?” someone said. “Please open this door.” When it opened the man was standing there barelegged with a jacket thrown over his shoulders, wearing a look of assured indifference. The boy, in his undershirt, sat in bed with the quilt pulled up to his waist. From the doorway Zeberjet asked, “What’s wrong? What happened?” “He cheated me,” came the answer, in a constricted voice. “How do you mean? Shall we call the police?” The boy, very pale, shook his head. “No. No, don’t do that.” “I’m sorry if we’ve upset you,” said the other. He turned to the boy. “I’ll move to another room if you like.” “No, don’t.” Everyone was silent in front of the door. “Good night,” said the man, and shut them out. “Can you beat that,” said an elderly fellow. “All right, people, let’s get to bed then.” Zeberjet turned off the hall light when they had withdrawn. Going upstairs, he undressed again and lay down, but had trouble getting to sleep. Next morning while the man was paying the boy stood aloof. But when his companion said, “Aren’t you going to wish the gentleman good morning?” he turned to smile, and in a voice changed from the night before said good morning.

  “Good evening to you.”

  “The same to you.”

  It was two men, and a sallow-faced woman with her nose bandaged. Zeberjet uttered the formula of condolence that means “Get well soon.”

  “Thank you. She got a nosebleed early this afternoon, about the time for prayers, and we couldn’t make it stop. Brought her to the hospital by train. She’s better now.”

  He wrote down their names and asked while handing them the key. They weren’t from there. Except when TEKEL, the state monopoly, was paying for the tobacco crop, no one from the nearby villages had been staying at the hotel much since the dolmushes began making their runs. When tobacco time did come round, every room except number 1 would be full. He was about to pick his nose but stopped as though someone were watching.

  THURSDAY

  Hearing the 6:40 he got up from his chair and went around to stand in front of the desk. Yesterday evening she hadn’t come. But today was Thursday. “Hello, is my room free? …” He ran a hand through his hair. There were so many alternatives, though she would say just one thing. Shaking his head, running a hand through his hair, or telling himself with impatience to let it go never drove all this out of his mind—not only the possible greetings, but the insignificant details connected to it….

  The door opened. It was a smartly dressed man. That face….

  “Do you have a single?”

  “Could I reserve it? I’ll be back.”

  The man turned and left. That dark, spare face, with a hint of mockery to the eyes and mouth. He’d seen it before. So she wouldn’t be coming tonight either. Couldn’t her brother or whoever tell her to leave (or offer to leave with her) before Republic Day? Maybe they had already brought her one morning by some other means to meet the Ankara-bound train. He shook his head. Pulled the collar of his sweater down a touch. He had bathed that morning and shaved. (The barber’s boy had come for him that afternoon. “Tell him I got a haircut the other day.” The boy had gone, to be replaced shortly by the barber himself. “Zeberjet Efendi, if we’ve done something amiss….” “No, no. I was downtown Monday and had my hair cut there.” “When the boy told me, I thought you might have left us for good.” “No, I’ll be in again.” “I see you had your mustache removed, too.” “I suppose so.” “That was a good idea. You look younger.” The barber left. “What did he want?” asked the Retired Officer. “For me to get a haircut.”) While shaving he’d been careful to slide the razor gently over the nick at the right corner of his mouth. Drying his face, he saw that there was no blood. But he still went through the motions of stanching with the towel. Dressed, he hea
ded downstairs, then turned back part way to the third floor and woke up the maid. On Thursdays she went to the marketplace for the week’s vegetables. Toward morning he’d awakened from a dream in which he was coming and coming. His briefs were wet and sticky in front. He’d sat up, and with the dripping held in his hand had gone to the bathroom. Soiling yourself was beyond your control. In his dream it had been strange to lie with the maid, whom he hadn’t thought of that way lately. She’d been almost the same as in real life, but she opened her eyes, embraced him, and when he chewed her nipple said, “Haa, I’m yours,” or “Ahh, how I’m yours.” He touched his pants where it had begun to grow again, pushed it down, rearranged it. Sometimes with a slipper at night in the barracks…. The door opened. It was the Retired Officer. For a week now his slacks had been well-pressed. He might be going to a tailor’s sometimes during the lunch hour to have it done. That noon Zeberjet had had his own ironed. The man’s nose was red, so he must have been drinking again. He sat in the usual armchair.

  “It’s cool out tonight. How do you heat this place in the winter?”

  “There’s a kerosene stove for down here. And the head of the stairs has partitioning boards, plus a door.”

  “How about the other floors?”

  “They’re not heated.”