Motherland Hotel

by Yusuf Atilgan

  He opened his eyes. She was in the painting on the wall.

  He re-closed them. It had gotten stiff again and he ran his fingers through the short hairs at the root. “Almost as big as the rest of you.” That tall woman, under him so tall. Could I kiss your breasts Sure if you want and your neck too Go ahead sure but his lips barely reached if he was slow ever slow in coming she had a practiced grind an up and down up and down a rocking like the attic cradle rocking….

  WEDNESDAY

  “We’re full up,” he said. There was a frog in his throat. He cleared it. “There’s no room, sir.” This was the first one all day. Face in shadow by the door. Now it would start again, hours of “There’s no room” or “We’re full.” When the man had left Zeberjet got up to turn on the lights, then took the DOOR LOCKED AT MIDNIGHT sign from the wall and brought it to the desk. In bold letters he wrote CLOSED on the back. No need to give a reason, cleaning, repairs or the like. He pinned the card to the doorjamb, then turned to see the maid by the stairs.

  “What is it?”

  “Should I leave tomorrow?”

  “Sure, if you want.”

  She stood there. Just a few days seemed to have aged her.

  “What else have you got to say?”

  “I made kachamak. Shall I bring it down?”

  He hadn’t felt like lunch that noon, but had drunk some milk.

  “Not right now. I’m going out. Don’t open to anyone.”

  When she had gone upstairs he turned the lights out and stood for a while in the gloom. Would she really leave tomorrow? He went outside and locked the front door, testing it afterwards to make sure. Up the street there was a gathering in front of the bakery. When Zeberjet got there he found a car had smashed into one of the sidewalk trees. He craned his neck but the view was blocked. Someone asked how many people had been in the car.

  “Three. They took them away.”

  “Anyone dead?”

  Someone shouldered his way past Zeberjet, who collected himself and headed downtown.

  The eatery he’d been to the night before was quiet. He sat at a small table near the door. The waiter (reminding him of a young boy who’d once been to the hotel) took his order of shish kabob, fried eggplant, and wine. At one of the tables to his left a man with a high forehead, round eyes, and a square mustache was talking to a pair of men opposite him. Monday to Monday made eight, Tuesday nine, Wednesday ten. It was ten days today. He fingered his upper lip. The double-chinned, bulbous-nosed customer sitting by the refrigerator had been there the night before. The waiter moved between them in his stained jacket, set down a small bottle of wine with a dish of fried eggplant slices in yogurt, and said something.

  “What was that?”

  “I said your shish kabob is coming up.”

  Two tables away a command was barked and the waiter hurried over. There were three of them, the two facing Zeberjet both bushy-browed and black-mustached (though they did not look alike) while the back turned to him wore a tautly stretched black jacket. This man had short hair. Four newcomers—three of them young, the other middle-aged—took seats at the table in front of Zeberjet. When the shish kabob arrived he filled a narrow, flawed glass tumbler with wine. Eating slowly, with long pauses between bites, he would lift the glass now and then for a squinting sip. Whenever the door opened he turned to look. A tall slender fellow, in the act of pulling out the chair across from him to sit, changed his mind and went over to a free table for two on the other side of the door. It was smoky in the place and full of hubbub, a steady mix of laughter and conversation. The talkative, brown-haired youth sitting by the wall reminded him of someone. Their eyes met and Zeberjet dropped his to light a cigarette. He hadn’t heard the door open. A policeman and a brown-uniformed night watchman went past him to the group two tables away. Conversation had ceased. The policeman laid a hand on the shoulder of the short-haired man in the black jacket.

  “On your feet and let’s go to the station.”

  The black-mustached man by the wall spoke up. “What gives? What’s he done?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That he’s on the run, wanted. All right, let’s get moving.”

  The chair scraped as the man—hard-bitten, youthful—stood.

  “Who snitched?”

  “How would I know? You’ll find out soon enough.”

  As the man edged out he shoved the policeman and watchman into one of the other tables, and amid a crash of bottles and glasses bolted through the door. Recovering their balance the two cops went after him, the watchman blowing his whistle just beside Zeberjet, whose left ear rang with the shrillness. The two with black mustaches had risen to leave. From beside the refrigerator the white-aproned cook shouted after them.

  “You didn’t pay!”

  The second of the two, halfway out the door, barely turned his head to answer.

  “Your mother can pay.”

  While the clamor of talk rose all at once around him Zeberjet sat stiffly erect, the cigarette crushed between two fingers of his left hand. He ground it out in the ashtray. The cook was swearing vehemently. With his right hand Zeberjet drained his glass and poured out the remainder of the bottle. As he was setting it down it struck his plate, but nothing broke. He ate the shish kabob, cold now, and lit another cigarette. The middle-aged man with his back turned said, “They’ll get him some day.” Kilisli had run off with the Master Sergeant’s pistol, government issue. Never heard from again. Short, with a pox scar on his left (or was it right?) cheek. Once during class he had butted the sergeant from Malatya in the stomach. “Get up, you. Not you, him. What’s your name?” “Me, sir?” He picked up his glass and, squinting, took a few sips. Slowly he set the glass down. The young fellow by the wall was watching him; he leaned over and said something to his companion, who also turned. Zeberjet looked off. In a picture on the wall Mehmet the Conqueror—Fatih Mehmet—was racing his horse over the sea. The boy had eyes like Fatihli’s, but softer. “Come here, you. Fill up this canteen.” It was hot. In the other picture there was a plate of summer fruit. “Grapes?” “No.” He brought the cigarette to his lips. It was out. He laid it in the ashtray. The wine label read Dark Cluster. In the long, narrow vineyard Ömer had said, “We’d come out here at dawn if you were staying and eat grapes cold off the vine.” If he had stayed, for one night…. A long-faced man wearing a vest and tie held the back of the opposite chair and asked if it was free.

  “We’re full up, sir.”

  He was looking at the vest. How many buttons? Six. The man withdrew. His own had five. Six days ago this morning he had gone up to bathe and change. He’d been letting the maid sleep. Tomorrow she planned to leave, then. A cat brushed against his leg. He trembled. Kicking, his foot hit the other chair and people turned to look. He shifted, reached half way to the partly filled glass. Beyond the left shoulder of the middle-aged man in front of him he could see the face with a square mustache, the eyelids drooping now. The man in the vest was sharing the lefthand table with another customer. They were talking. Suppose he put on his old clothes tomorrow, started letting his mustache grow. He gave his head a shake. There was one slice of eggplant left. Would he go back to the hotel? It was early yet, he could take a walk toward the bridge first. So as not to shout (it was still noisy) he sat until the waiter was nearby, and signaled. The waiter picked up the plates, glass and bottle (“Are you going to drink this?” “No.”) along with the fifty-lira bill Zeberjet had taken from his back pocket. As the waiter moved off, the middle-aged man—his back to Zeberjet—rose.

  “It’s past seven,” he said. “Time for me to go.”

  “The fight again?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Stick around. We’re doing all right here.”

  “No, my mind would be on the fight. It’s a good one tonight, both birds undefeated. Waiter!”

  “Forget that, we’ll pay.”

  The waiter was approaching.

&
nbsp; “Well, keep smiling.”

  They laughed as Zeberjet gathered his change and rose. There was a moment’s dizziness, then he recovered and followed the man out. Soon they turned onto a long, feebly lit avenue, its center lined with trees. He followed at a distance. At the end of the avenue was an old Ottoman soup kitchen with an arcade, which now housed five or six shops, of which the last one was open and lit. Outside stood a gathering, through which the man made his way while Zeberject hung back. The sign over the archway read SPUR AND BEAK CAFE. It was a grimy-walled little place with three tables, packed to the windowsills inside. Some of the people outside held glasses of tea. A pair of small black-and-red-feathered gamecocks stood on separate tables, with their long necks and rangy, thick legs. Both were quiet, oblivious to the discussion and debate around them, and of the hands that now and again reached out to smooth their backs. The one in the corner let out a brief, hoarse crow. The other, near the door, stretched its neck to see, gave an equally brief crow, and crapped on the table. People laughed. A happy-faced, rotund man took out a handkerchief and cleaned up the droppings with all the concentration one might bestow on some precious substance. He smoothed the fowl’s neck and praised him. Outside someone spoke up.

  “He’ll lose.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Didn’t you see him crap?”

  “Well sure. But they all crap.”

  This got a rousing laugh. He laughed too. The discussion indoors had apparently resolved itself, for someone said, “Come on, we’re going up.” They all climbed the broad, worn flight of stone steps beside the cafe and came out behind the arcade where five or six burning bulbs hung from cords on either side of a level, fair-sized area. There wasn’t much of a crowd. A strapping young fellow strode with a short pole, walking the circuit of the pit. “Here they come.” Two men appeared, looking somber and pale, each cradling his fowl. Their followers stood pit-side while these two went out to the middle and turned loose their cocks. “Go get him,” said one. The other, nearer Zeberjet, said nothing but took up a position close by. A swarthy, thick-browed, hard-bitten face. The two cocks—neck feathers puffed up, heads down and forward—made their approach and joined. A brief cheer went up, and Zeberjet shivered. Against his right arm he felt a warmth, some other arm. From the corner of his eye he saw that it was a brown-haired boy his own height, very young, watching the pit with mouth half open. The two birds, beak, spur and wing, were at each other fiercely. Once down, either one was quickly up again attacking. Most thrusts were with the beak, aiming to seize the opponent’s crest. The bird so caught would duck and shake himself, with much effort, free. They seemed like twins, he had no way to tell them apart. One flew up and kicked the other, both feet to the head. There were several cheers. “Go!” “Tear him open!”

  “He fought better last week.”

  “Which one?”

  “With the short crest. There’s a spot of yellow in his wing.”

  Now that he mentioned it, one of them did have a deep yellow feather on one wing. And its crest was a little shorter. The man on Zeberjet’s left, bespectacled and elderly, asked if this was his first fight. He didn’t reply. Pressing his arm against the boy’s, he found it hard and warm. The cocks flew up, struck, fell, rallied, attacked again. Their necks were long, their black and red feathers puffed out. But they were slowing down. The one with the yellow feather lashed out in mid-air, missed, and went down. The boy’s arm stirred.

  “Whistle-shot.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The spur just missed. He’s tiring.”

  The eyes were bright, long-lashed. The boy smiled. Zeberjet had a sudden urge to lean over and kiss him, but looked away and removed his arm. The boy edged closer. “At this rate he’s going to lose.” The cocks were slow now, leaping with effort and recovering less readily. The short-crested one with the yellow feather was farther gone. Blood oozed from his crest. But he kept on fighting doggedly. When he went down twice in a row the pole-carrier approached the tall, black-browed man.

  “Why not take him out, abi?”

  “Mind your own business. Get back.”

  The man’s eyes were intent on the pit, his face grim, one cheek twitching. The yellow-feathered cock was caught by the crest and struggling mightily, his neck bloody. The other cock’s crest was bleeding too. The elderly man with glasses leaned out.

  “You’re wasting a good bird, Tahsin Bey.”

  The pole-carrier was busy conferring with the other owner across the pit. Most of the spectators had their eyes on Tahsin Bey. Some were shouting.

  “What the hell!”

  “It’s murder!”

  “Get him out of there. Break it up.”

  “Right. Break it up.”

  No one set foot in the pit. The fight went on. The short-crested cock couldn’t shake free. He fell attempting to leap, got up, staggered. The other bird put all he had left into a double-winged blow that finished him. He lay still, neck and body stretched full length. The owners came to pit center, where the exhausted but still standing cock was gathered up affectionately. The thick-browed losing owner grasped his yellow, red and black bird by the legs and swung it with a thud against the pit floor. Then he let fly with it over toward the arcade. The neck stretched longer as the bird arced across to fall between two of the small domes. Zeberjet closed his eyes and moved so his shoulder no longer touched the boy’s. His arm was stiff, his right fist tight in the jacket pocket. He relaxed it and let go of the key that had made his palm sore.

  “Are you dizzy, abi?”

  He opened his eyes to see the long lashes, slightly tilted nose, and low forehead.

  “Some.”

  He took his hand out of his pocket and started to walk, down the eroded stone steps with the talking, laughing, swearing crowd, then along the tree-lined, feebly lit avenue with the boy beside him. This was the first time Zeberjet had been to a cock-fight, so the boy told him about the week before when the cock who died tonight had won. But the fight they were coming from had been the best ever.

  “Why did they want to break it up, abi?”

  “Who knows?” He gave it some thought. “Maybe they were afraid of going all the way. Of seeing the end.”

  He took out his cigarettes. The boy didn’t smoke. What was his name? Ekrem. The boy asked too, and Zeberjet lit his cigarette before answering. “Ahmet.” How long had Ekrem been here? A year, having come from one of the counties. He worked at a wrought-iron shop in the industrial quarter. Low wages, but he was learning the trade. He lived with his elderly aunt.

  “Will you be going home?”

  “No, there’s a western on at the Palace. Why don’t you come along?”

  “Your aunt won’t worry if you’re late?”

  “She’s used to that. And I have a key.”

  “Do you always spend the evening alone?”

  “No, there’s Orhan, a friend at the shop. He got sick this afternoon.”

  They’d come out onto the noisy, bright main avenue. Lined up on the sidewalk in front of the office building there were nuts to buy, a tray that offered syrup-soaked cakes, another with various sesame sweets, and on the corner a man with a cap to set off his round face selling roast chestnuts. With a small pair of tongs he filled a paper bag for Zeberjet, who held it out to Ekrem as they walked on. There was hesitation, then a smile, and the boy took a few. His hands were browner than his face, and well formed.

  “Wait, let’s empty some in your pocket.”

  He poured out more than half.

  “Abi, that’s plenty.”

  They weren’t quite roasted through, but he enjoyed them. While they read the posters at the movie theater, surrounded by harsh, ragged singing from crudely mounted loudspeakers, he put the last two chestnuts into his lefthand pocket and crumpled up the bag. They approached the box-office together.

  “Wait here.”

  “But…Why don’t I…?”

  They went up the steps. He did not look at
the ticket-taker’s face. The theater was quiet. They sat on the aisle halfway down, Zeberjet taking the inside seat. The boy was on his right again. Their arms touched as they settled into place. “This theater is the best,” said Ekrem. There was peach fuzz on his upper lip, and where the sideburns would be. His age? Just over sixteen. And his?

  “Thirty…three.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I run a hotel. It was left to me by my grandfather.”

  Ten years since he had been to a movie. That was another thing responsibility—the hotel—seemed to have made him forget. He used to go now and then as a boy. During his teens, too, and in the army. When his father was alive. Once (not here, this theater was new) the man next to him had given his leg…. “Excuse me,” said a voice, and they drew their knees up so four people could get by. There was laughter and conversation from the rows farther back. In resting his feet on the rung under the seat in front of him, Zeberjet’s knee touched the boy’s leg. He let it stay there. Suddenly a bell rang outside. With a tremor he retracted the knee. The bell stopped. The boy’s legs in their dark blue pants were well-formed and hard. The lights went off amid talking and the creaking of seats. Credits shifted large and small on the screen, where it was sundown and a hatted rider in black came slowly out of the distance. And nearer. The face ballooned. “He was in a different movie a month ago,” said the boy, hunching closer. Zeberjet felt the warmth on his leg and stayed put. The young rider comes to a deserted-looking town, leaves his horse at a blacksmith and goes into a hotel. Dialogue reveals he’s back from the war, and has come too late. The bad side has taken over, his brothers have all been killed, his land is gone. Next day the blacksmith tells him it’s hopeless single-handed. Having a drink at the bar in a crowded saloon he sees (thanks to the mirror) a hand reach for a holster. He dives, kills. Then comes a large room where the middle-aged banker is spurned by the judge’s daughter and assaults her. The girl slips free and runs out. “Strange,” murmured Zeberjet. The boy didn’t hear. Mouth open, he was watching the screen.