Motherland Hotel

by Yusuf Atilgan

  “Anybody here?”

  He let go of the quilt and started for the door.

  “Coming.”

  He locked the door, and the one to Room 2 on the second floor. Holding the keys, he turned on the landing to see a policeman by the desk. He slowed.

  “Looking for me?” he asked casually.

  “You the manager?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  On the bottom step, in front of Room 1, he stumbled.

  “Easy does it,” said the policeman. “What were you doing up there?”

  “Who, me? Cleaning the rooms.” He put the keys down.

  “Don’t you have a woman for that?”

  “Of course, but she’s on leave. It’s been five days.”

  “Anyhow, we’re looking for someone you may have seen.”

  “Oh?”

  “An all points came from Ankara this morning. Let’s see. Approximately fifty years old, medium height, plump, bushy-browed, green eyes. Anyone like that stay here recently?”

  He held out a photo. It was the Retired Officer, but the wrinkles in his forehead didn’t show.

  “He had on a pale green sweater. Came two weeks ago last Friday. He stayed just a week.”

  “One week?”

  “Yes. Here’s the name from his ID.”

  He leafed through the register and came to Friday.

  “Mahmut Görgün,” said the policeman, bending to see. “That’s not his name, but he’ll have false papers. Friday, October 18th. There. How did he spend his time?”

  “Sat in that armchair, mainly. Reading the papers. A bushel of newspapers every day. He’d come down toward noon and go out for lunch. Ate his suppers out, too.”

  The policeman was taking notes.

  “His name was on the forms.”

  “Forms?”

  “The police forms. I sent them in as usual.”

  “Oh, those. No one ever looks. They’re stashed away someplace.”

  That was a shock. The forms that he had so painstakingly filled out and faithfully sent in all these years—he and before him his father—were ignored. He had always thought they somehow put him in touch with the higher-ups.

  “Why do they want them filled out?”

  “There must be a good reason. Enough of this.”

  And the policeman again held out the photo.

  “That’s him, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s the Retired Officer.”

  “That skunk told you he was an officer?”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  The other laughed.

  “When did he check out?”

  “Ten days ago. Friday morning.”

  “How would you describe him? As he was leaving.”

  “Same clothes as usual. He carried a small leather suitcase. Hadn’t shaved that morning. He looked unwell.”

  The other jotted something down and folded the note into his pocket.

  “Fair enough. See you.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  As the policeman left Zeberjet called out.

  “What’s he charged with?”

  The other turned with a leer to quip, “Running white slaves to Africa.” But he turned around again while opening the door, grim now.

  “He knocked off his daughter.”

  “Knocked up his daughter?”

  “Knocked her off. Strangled her. The janitor reported three days ago when the apartment building began to stink.”

  After the policeman had gone Zeberjet sat down behind his desk, looking at the R.O.’s chair. Strangled her. Nothing should surprise. They had both killed a person in their lives. The first few days Zeberjet had thought the R.O. was waiting for that woman. Hadn’t he been? He might have seen her once with his daughter, or found a resemblance. ‘On the run. You can’t stay on the run forever.’ Sitting down here with a book or newspaper as prop. Closer to danger though it might be, it could never match the strain of waiting upstairs, of wondering ‘Is this it?’ each time he heard a door, or footsteps, or some unidentifiable noise. Down here at least he would know if the door had opened or not.

  The door opened. It was the neighborhood grocer who came in, a tall, slender man.

  “Hello. Just thought I’d ask after your maid. Is she sick?”

  “Maid? Why should…?”

  “She hasn’t come in shopping for the past few days.”

  “Oh, of course. She’s gone to her village. To her uncle’s funeral.”

  “Is that so!”

  “She’ll be there a month. I’ll drop by if I need anything.”

  “All right, then. Good day to you.”

  “Same to you.”

  The grocer left. Zeberjet was loitering downstairs when the policeman came back, accompanied by another whom he addressed as ‘Inspector.’ The same questions were asked again in detail. Even though Zeberjet told them the Retired Officer’s room had since been occupied, the inspector demanded to see it and they went up. What about that rope? It was a clothesline he had forgotten there on being called down while cleaning the room. The bedside table drawers were empty. The man went through the newspapers one by one. Downstairs again they took a statement—the inspector laughed at his name—which he signed. He felt tired when they had left, and sat down in the corner chair. The inspector had laughed. Did other people really have to be dragged in? Upstairs while they were going through the newspapers his heart had been pounding, his knees watery, and he’d been about to…. “Did you take any of these?” the inspector had bellowed. Zeberjet had to swallow first to get a “No, sir” out. Maybe, of all the possibilities, one would, in time, be final. He rose when the noon cannon boomed. The alarm clock, which he had brought along that morning to put back on the safe, was two minutes fast. He set it and went into the pantry, where he selected a can of stuffed cabbage leaves in olive oil. This he placed on the ironing board. He searched around, took up a knife and pestle, and managed to cut through the tin by pounding on the knife-handle.

  When he’d eaten he hung the CLOSED sign up and went out. It had warmed up since morning. A young man with a cigarette stood lounging against the wall at the corner of the street that led to the station. Down the other sidewalk came a municipal agent with his leather briefcase. (‘Waiting for someone. A girl.’) Zeberjet locked the door and started walking. Five years before (or was it six?) one of these agents had picked on his hotel, finding the fresh sheets and scrubbed linoleum “soiled.” “You’ll be fined for this, fined!” Pink-cheeked and hale, brandishing his briefcase. The Dentist, whom Zeberjet had told, saw to it that…. He passed the bakery, glanced at the key in his left hand, and turned back. The young fellow on the corner was gone. Zeberjet went up the three marble steps and turned the handle, pushing and tugging. The door was locked. A woman’s voice came from behind him. “Can’t you see it says closed?” She was tall and elderly. He smiled, walked away briskly, and put the key in his pocket. He walked past the bakery, the bookstore, the TB wards. Three peasant women were sitting on the courthouse steps, in front of its imposing, glass-paned door. He stopped at the corner, where a street connected the long, two-story building to the new jail. The old one …

  “Shoe-shine, abi?”

  A dark boy with wild, curly hair. Zeberjet put his right foot on the box. “No polish,” he said.

  …was on the barrack grounds near the mountain. Part of the old barracks, it had gone in the Fire. Now a school stood there. As a child he’d been there once with Lütfiyé Mola, a wizened, toothless, chattering old woman, step-sister to his supposed grandfather, that hastily procured husband of the servant girl (his grandmother) whom Rüstem Bey had gotten pregnant. Every day without fail Lütfiyé Mola would take lunch to her grandson there in jail, waiting outside the gate. “Who’s that with you, grandma?” “Our Saïdé’s boy.”

  Knock of brush against box, signal to change shoes. Putting his left foot up he again said, “No polish.”

  Their house was on the mountain, below the so-called Great Mo
sque. They would sometimes go there, he and his mother, on bayram days and listen to long stories of their ancestors. Perhaps that had been some bayram day, too. A pale, thin-mustached youth, his bony, blunt-nailed hands on the bars. He was in for shooting Hasan Efendi’s son during some drunken horseplay at a wine-and-women party in a vineyard cabin. An accident, or so he was to claim the rest of his life, but Hasan Efendi—a watch repairman—kept after it and they gave him fifteen years.

  “All done, abi.”

  Zeberjet took his feet off the box and placed a coin in the swarthy, dirty palm. That night if he had invited the boy over, who worked at the wrought-iron shop, if he had asked him along, then maybe…. He turned and went up the stone steps and through the glass-paned door. He’d been here once while his father was alive, and then to stand witness during the thief’s trial. But that had been a petty case. Above the open double door across from him it said FELONIES. He walked in and unobtrusively took a seat in the last bench on the left, as a few spectators turned to stare.

  “Which one?” barked the gray-haired presiding judge from his perch, thick-browed and thin-lipped and flanked by two others, all three in black, red-collared gowns.

  “The one on the right, Your Honor. Naïl Bey.”

  The black-mustached man on the witness stand pointed to one of the three men sitting in the wooden-railed dock. Behind them stood three gendarmes with bayoneted rifles.

  “Tell us what he said!”

  “He asked me to deliver two loads of sand. We struck a bargain and I delivered the sand. Unloaded it in the rear of the warehouse beside the gate.”

  “Which warehouse?”

  “The Ag Trade.”

  “Where did you get this sand?”

  “From Domuz Deresi. We generally get our sand from that stream bed.”

  The prosecutor straightened in his chair.

  “Let this question be put,” he said. “Did witness have prior knowledge that this sand was being used to adulterate cotton seed?”

  “Did you hear?”

  “I did hear the question, Your Honor. No, I hadn’t realized. They told me it was for plaster.”

  “Whitewash would be more like it.”

  Laughter in the courtroom. The presiding judge pounded his fist on the bench.

  “Your witness.”

  One of the two lawyers sitting black-robed beside the dock rose.

  “Let this question be put. Has witness seen …” (he pointed at the center defendant) “…that man at any time in the past?”

  “No.”

  The presiding judge gave instructions to the court recorder. Then the name of another witness was shouted. The presiding judge conferred briefly with his two colleagues.

  “For the record!” They rose to their feet. “…view of…absence…summons…Thursday’s session. Take them away!”

  Zeberjet quivered. While the gendarmes handcuffed the defendants two spectators left the courtroom, and he followed them out. Sitting on a bench at the end of the wall he lit a cigarette. A neverending crowd of people—ranged on benches, knotted in front of doorways, passing through—filled the long corridor to his left with a brute, echoing murmur that now and again yielded up the name, sharply cried twice, of a plaintiff, defendant, witness or attorney. There was noticeable traffic through the main door. To judge by the sounds in the courtroom, another case was being tried. Obviously prisoners were not brought in through here. There must be a door on the jailhouse side in the rear. His cigarette was only half smoked, and he stayed put. When his two brownish fingertips felt heat he took a final drag and dropped the butt between his legs, crushing it out as he got up, and headed into the chamber. He sat in the same place. The court recorder’s voice came rapid and monotonous. “…morning the best man’s family came to rouse the groom we said it was early yet and sent them back when they came an hour later Fatma Hanim commented they’re sleeping like the dead to question put witness deposed that Fatma Hanim was mother of the accused Ahmet Kuruja shortly thereafter Fatma Kuruja went upstairs she screamed I ran up and saw the door open Fatma Kuruja was on her knees screaming the bride lay naked on the bed her face smashed and bloody her hair spread on the pillow her breast was bloody to question put witness deposed that the victim had nothing in her hands to question put witness deposed she did not see the copper pitcher to question put witness deposed that as she knew both families she had spent the night downstairs in order to take the virgin-cloth to the bride’s family next morning to question put witness deposed that around midnight she heard a disturbance and muffled cries but ignored them this being the wedding night and declared she had nothing to add prosecution asked for this question what opinion did witness have of accused had accused ever acted strangely to question put witness deposed that accused was a good sort quiet and hardworking back from the fields one evening he had lost his temper because there was no lentil soup another time long ago when the mother of the accused was at her afternoon prayers accused came up behind her with a pop-gun and frightened her nullifying the prayers defense had no questions witness Hasan Belji son of Ahmet by Eminé born thirteen thirty-six was called and was advised that as maternal uncle of accused he could refuse the oath witness took oath to question put witness deposed as follows I was roused toward dawn the night of March third nineteen sixty-three by a knock at the door I went to open and was greatly surprised to find my nephew Ahmet Kuruja why that very evening after prayers we had sent him to his wedding chamber I asked what was wrong he said he’d killed her worn out from the three-and-a-half hour walk to our place my wife asked who’s there I told her calm down he didn’t have much cash asked could I let him have some he’d need it to get away I said money was no problem but sit down and breathe a spell I urged him to explain why but he wouldn’t just that he had crushed her skull with the pitcher I argued this was towards noon that he should turn himself in where can you go I said they’ll catch you before two days are out but he refused to listen I said all right but wait for dark he lay down on the cushion and slept I had my son go to the post and the gendarme came to question put witness deposed that accused was the son of his elder sister and that when accused failed the sixth grade he had dropped out to work on his father’s farm that witness hunted with accused occasionally winters when accused came to village and that accused was a good shot in the open field but always avoided the duck blind one day accused pounced on and strangled to death a jackal he had wounded witness declared that he had nothing to add prosecution and defense had no questions when asked why he had killed his bride accused again kept silence the bench conferred and in light of the accused Ahmet Kuruja’s conduct during the trial requested medical observation to determine legal responsibility continuation of trial was set for November fourth nineteen sixty-three at two p.m.”

  Zeberjet shifted on the seat. He gave a tug at the collar of his sweater. Throughout this flatly read transcript he had watched the defendant, visible between two gendarmes holding bayonet-tipped rifles. Seen from the left and from behind, his head bowed, he was a wan-faced young man, broad in the shoulders and thick-necked, with something of a hawk nose.

  “Prisoner, stand!”

  He was of average height.

  “When were you discharged from the hospital?”

  “Saturday.”

  “The report isn’t here yet. Have you anything to say?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “You still refuse to explain your motive?”

  The young man’s eyes were lowered. His left hand tightly gripped the hem of his jacket.

  ‘They cornered you or really you cornered yourself whatever go to your uncle for why not toward the mountain and take a rope along I myself came close to …’

  “The doctor testifies she was a virgin. Her father insists he never let a male, not even a male fly near her. What made you do it?”

  ‘Father? Her father’s been long dead when they married her off the groom demanded a virgin naked that early dawn with eyes and mouth open I drew the q
uilt …’

  “Tell us, now, or it will go hard with you. Speak out! Why did you kill her?”

  ‘might even be a relief but not all this police coroner prosecutors lawyers judges as for motive these last five days …’

  “Did she insult or offend you? Did she strike you?”

  ‘I haven’t solved that but why a motive at all they need a story either insult or a slap silence or obedience something to fit a little box strange how this judge reminds me of the R.O. suppose he strangled his daughter or wife …’

  “For the record!” (At the creaking of seats Zeberjet rose too. A voice near the door to his right said in a half whisper, “You don’t have to stand.”) “…report to arrive…further communication…next…be set for November twenty-eighth.”

  As the prisoner was being handcuffed Zeberjet turned and left the chamber. ‘November twenty-eighth then.’ The glass-paned door was open. Outside it was mild and sunny. He went down the steps. A simit vendor now stood on the corner beside the shoeshine boy. Zeberjet passed the police station but slowed at the main crossing. Ahead to the right he could see the trees of Ulu Park. He had spent occasional afternoons there long ago. What time was it? A teenager paused beside him and, glancing at his wrist, said “Ten past three.” Zeberjet quickened his step. Had he been thinking out loud? As long as he wished to handle the problem alone he’d have to be on guard. The avenue was quiet. If he wore his old clothes, the vest, he could carry his pocket watch again. Or go downtown on the way back (he patted his hind pocket) and buy a wristwatch.

  He took the north entrance into the park. Red earth mixed with white gravel formed plots and lanes among the various shrubs and flowers and the tall pines. On either side of the path out in front of the stunted myrtles stood low green benches placed there years earlier by a bank—but battered and in need of paint now—on one of which sat two teenagers whose conversation broke off when Zeberjet walked by. He passed a man reading a newspaper and chose a bench on the left, just before the packed-dirt open area at the park’s center with its stone monument to the Liberation. His body felt relaxed, loose. Unbuttoning his jacket, he straightened the collar of his sweater and leaned back. In the extraordinarily mild, still, mid-autumn air, petals and leaves hung unmoving but filled with life—myrtles, pines, chrysanthemums, roses, lilies, and red-blossomed shrubs he could not name, at their root the decayed bones and flesh and hair and nails of all the dead who had been folded into this soil through uncounted centuries until the Fire. For this had been the cemetery. His mother and father were in the new one on the eastern edge of town, but his grandparents lay here. Hadji Zeynel Agha, Ferhundé Hanim, Malik Agha, Hashim Bey. As a child of four or five he had been brought here by his mother on the eve of Feast of the Sacrifice. “Last year you cried,” she had said, so it must have been his second visit. The cemetery had at that time been closed with no new burials since the Fire, so that the tall, moss-covered, turban-crested grave markers leaned into the twining drag of vines, nettles and rank weeds in a strangely tilted jumble beneath those colossal trees; the whole cemetery and its jetsam of boulders girded by a low, cracked stone wall pocked with grass and beginning to crumble, outside of which they had stood—as near as possible to the plots of their dead—among a flock of tearful women while his mother raised her face to the trees, eyes half shut and lips moving in silence as she…. The bench rocked a bit, and he half turned to look. An elderly wrinkled man wearing a cap and scarf sat on the edge mumbling. “…hardly…trace…birds.” One hand rested on the cane between his legs. With so many benches free why did he have to pick this one?