Motherland Hotel

by Yusuf Atilgan

  like your father

  like your mother

  your wife

  not my wife this woman

  slime

  slime-bucket

  fig-face

  jelly-faced jew

  you’ll lie in the jew-yard

  your widow will dance

  a quiet woman who always slept the stove must have blown up

  kick the brazier, chestnuts all

  spill the fire coals

  pour kerosene in the attic kerosene in her room strike

  he’d come for me

  still people to interfere third-degree prosecutor where were you when it broke out didn’t you smell hear but I was in bed

  take him down start choking

  night the flames day smoke for sure someone see fire fire

  sidle up as if to buy sock him

  come up and pop one on the jaw

  come up then chop to the neck

  fire fire rush in to find the body

  questions grilling jail

  stood there the old jailhouse door and behind it pale hands on the bars Lütfi his name that’s right when grandmother died was Lütfiyé Mola wet-nurse mother stand there put you with other prisoners and cuss his face they’d ask too what made you kill her softly behind him with my knife or dig a hole could stick him in the neck

  in the yard no the basement drag her down those stairs slowly some night by the head but her feet by the feet then her head bump each step and even if no one saw some village relative inquire might go police grocer might tell said she’d gone to her uncle’s funeral I see then she must be somewhere else put hot chestnuts his armpits behind with the knife but if he whirls

  grilling trial to reconvene November twenty-eighth so November twenty-eighth funny they draw it out what for the judge seemed to look at me said take them away

  toss dirt in his chestnuts get our sand from Domuz Deresi

  pig-face

  jackass

  cow-puss

  mule-mouth

  ape-face

  bear

  hippo

  cockroach

  mouse

  dog

  jackal

  pounced on and strangled a jackal won’t let the jackals get my mare his uncle’s words you wonder strangled that boy if no one hard to tell would he flinch or not from going all the way hadn’t flinched from the final choice not hanged himself be wrinkled bent cane-propped like that codger in park extremely handsome at nineteen said my uncle tailors beg to outfit him white linen suits and in the stairwell flies rose from his not so much as a male fly near her well three cheers

  when he sees the knife he

  trim those nails my corn I’ve truly walked today go to Hikmet the Cobbler

  come up in front

  alongside

  behind sock his cap off in the coals

  the key? Still there rest have forgotten the manor house just me left and the dead the park old guy crooked peak of his cap

  sneak grab his cap off let it fly

  out the attic window landed on pavement the street cleaner next morning must’ve thought run over what’s his name doesn’t have one let’s call him Lampblack isn’t that the same cop as this morning’

  (Suddenly reversing direction he bumped into an arm. “Pardon,” he said.)

  ‘Pardon my asking are you a stranger no but yes things elude me do I have friends family to talk some morning should visit checkers cafe rush aproned down street meat cleaver waving would people laugh or scatter boom through the yard door and his wife into the outhouse with pan of food the kachamak spoiling how long will she keep two weeks for R.O.’s daughter but that was a heated building attic’s cooler winter near say three chopping meat on block think of his wife a saw for bones should get a hacksaw find one at wrought-iron these chestnuts for Ekrem

  sneak up and kick him in the spine

  slug him in the neck

  do you saw through the lower neck?

  good kick in the shins

  start with the feet those blackened soles can’t you wash them before bed how many sections from feet to hips two for arms no three blood must be congealed sharp blade to strip the trunk meat off chunks wrapped in paper down to the shed every day few hours interval have water boiling for laundry a cauldron people smell smoke think some food’s burning’

  He shook his head. He was approaching the office building. Turn down a side street or go apologize sorry friend I had no call to stand there or walk by as if nothing had happened, not look. He went stolidly past the syrup cakes, the nuts, the chestnuts. “You’re a nutcase!” shouted the chestnut man. Zeberjet looked. That broad smirk was not for him but for the two nut vendors, who were shoving one another and wisecracking. After the banks and before the square Zeberjet turned right and went into the same eatery he had been to twice the week before. It was almost empty, but there were two short-haired youths at a table on the right near the door. Apparently the broad-nosed, double-chinned customer by the icebox came every night. Zeberjet headed for the table left of the door, where the wearer of the six-button vest had eaten the other night. He sat down facing the street. There were two more men, one wearing glasses, at the table behind him. The waiter came up.

  “What can I get you?”

  He ordered raki, shish kabob, and fried eggplant.

  “We couldn’t find eggplants, abi. Our fava bean spread is good. Want to try that?”

  “All right.”

  A voice behind him was praising the potato balls at a stand-up raki joint in Izmir. When the waiter brought him the mashed fava beans with a half bottle of raki Zeberjet asked him what had happened to the fellow Wednesday night, who gave that cop and watchman the slip. Had he been caught?

  “Don’t know. Haven’t heard. What about some cheese and melon?”

  “No. Bring me an orange, peeled.”

  He poured raki into the narrow tumbler and took two sips, trying not to grimace. Would this ease—a little bit—the heaviness that had been growing in his mind and heart? He overheard snatches of the conversation behind him. “…first three weeks…never stand it…passing…finally used to…on the inside even in dreams.” “…you wounded?” “No…pan out…two years to the day.” “…at least …” “Sure, but…distrust, suspicion, lying…never alone…need warmth and sharing sometimes.” The waiter came back with his shish kabob and a sliced, peeled orange. This one had greenly gray eyes. And his hands weren’t dark-skinned. “Hands dark, heart gentle, says a friend of mine.” The tall girl who was seeing the ruins with her father had said over a glass of tea the second night that she missed her bicycle. She called it Düldül. “If I don’t watch out she’ll be feeding and watering it,” the father had said. Hashim Bey’s eldest daughter, Meserret Hanim, had a mule named Düldül that caught fire. In the picture on the wall, the long gray horse galloping with the Conqueror Fatih (whenever he stole a glance at Fatihli his head would bow) head down and full-rumped over the waves—could its name be Düldül too? Fatihli’s name was Serdar. Preparing himself for that woman’s return he had decided to tell her, if she asked, that Serdar was his name. When the boy from the iron shop had asked he lit a cigarette before answering. He could buy some hulled chestnuts after supper and go watch the cockfight. Pouring the last of the raki into his glass he drank half, squinting as the rawness went down. As he set down the glass, the table-top seemed to tilt, and he leaned back in his chair. The conversation behind him came more distinctly. “…er’s man. When he died, Coy Ibo took over the gambling end. Çakır Hasan used to go there and play, and he lost some poundage almost every time. Then one night he makes a killing. Coy Ibo pays him about a fifth and tells him the rest will come later. Of course Çakır wants it all, says he’s planted a field of cash there and now it’s his turn. They beat him up and throw him out, but he’s stubborn, hassles Ibo about it in the cafe a few times with everybody looking on. Out on the street one night three shots go off behind him.” “Behind who?” “Çakır. He takes one bul
let in the ass and spends the next month lying face down, first in the hospital, then at home. Day after the shooting he gives the prosecutor Ibo’s name. Coy claims he couldn’t know less but they slap him with eighteen months. Look sharp, boy! We need another small bottle and some cacık with crisp cucumbers.” “Aren’t you overdoing it?” “Come on, what’s one bottle?” “Then what happened?” “Then Çakır decides one of them will have to go. He’s had a month lying on his belly to think about it. Even considered pulling a job when he’s well, to get back on the inside.” “Here you are. Care for anything else?” “No thanks. He had eyes just like this boy here.” “Don’t pour me much. I’m feeling it as is.” “Come on.” “I always regret it later. That’s it, now.” “All right. Anyway, there’s a fellow villager doing time who gets the word to him on Ibo. Six months go by and he learns they’re moving Coy to another jail. Çakır shaves his mustache and goes to the train station that morning with shades on. He just waits. Toward noon Ibo comes in handcuffed with two gendarmes and they stick him in the police room. Pretty soon they’re putting him on the train to Afyon. Çakır’s packing heat, he moves up through the crowd and empties the barrel into Ibo’s back. People scream and scatter around him as he hands the empty gun to one of the gendarmes, who’s standing there frozen. Ibo took his time dying. The whole next day Çakır was on pins and needles as news made it to him in prison. ‘He’s still hanging on. Doctor says he may pull through.’ Late that afternoon he breathed easy. Ibo was gone. Çakır figured it would have been his turn otherwise. You can want another man dead so bad….” “Did he hang?” “No, he was still on trial when I got out. The Prosecutor wasn’t trying to fry him.” “But premeditated murder….” “Premeditated, but there was the earlier shooting.” “True.” “While I was in, old Arif and this Çakır Hasan….” “Psst.” “What’s up?” “Keep it low, I think we’ve got company.” Zeberjet bent to his plate again. He ate a few bites of cold meat. The orange tasted sour. Wasn’t he about to miss the cockfight? He took a few more sips of raki. Human warmth sometimes….

  “Heyyy. Make it count, friend.”

  A blubber-lipped, pink-cheeked man pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

  “That’s about the last of your raki. Let’s have some together. Waiter!”

  What did one say? Zeberjet got up, and clung to the table, his head spinning.

  “Pardon my leaving, I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “That so? I don’t like to drink by….”

  On his way toward the icebox he dug a bill from his back pocket and handed it to the waiter.

  “Never mind the change.”

  “Thanks. Come back again.”

  It was cool out. Hugging the wall, he made his way along the broad sidewalk that went past the banks. He felt his back pocket. The pen-knife was still there. When his foot slipped—an orange peel, or gob of phlegm—the friction of the wall, and one hand on the sidewalk, broke his fall and he straightened. Nobody laughed. Didn’t people see him? Coming round the corner he stopped. There was the vendor, turning chestnuts with his tongs. Still attentive to his work he cried out, “Roast like a goose!” Zeberjet trembled slightly, paling. Given courage—or indifference—there was nothing a man couldn’t do. He pulled out a ten and crossed the street to the vendor.

  “Two liras worth. Not over-plump.”

  The vendor weighed chestnuts in a small pair of scales.

  “Five liras if you’ll shuck them.”

  The other looked up. “Okay,” he said. His stubby, grimy-nailed fingers whisked through the chestnuts and transferred the hulled nuts to a paper bag. The rim of his cap was greasy. On his dark green jacket one button, the middle one, dangled loose. A red glow of coals showed under perforations in the metal sheet the chestnuts were roasting on, and a spark shot up through. Again the vendor cried, “Roast like a goose!” and handed him the bag.

  “Going to a movie?”

  “No,” said Zeberjet, extending the crumpled ten in his left hand. He took a chestnut from the bag and popped it in his mouth.

  “Bozdağ crop. The best.” Handing back five one-lira coins.

  “Recognize me?” Zeberjet asked.

  “Vaguely. Can’t say from where.”

  Walking downtown he put all the chestnuts in his pocket and threw the crumpled-up bag away. “Idiot,” he said softly. After the shops on both sides with their fronts protected by metal shutters he came out where the tree-lined avenue stretched away half-deserted. These chestnuts were roasted better than the other night. A buggy rolled past behind the tired clopping of its horses. At the Spur and Beak Cafe there were lights on but nobody outside. When Zeberjet looked in through the window he saw three young men besides the owner, two of them playing backgammon. “Good evening,” he said going in. He chose the table that had been crapped on by the bird before it died, and ordered a cup of half-sweetened coffee. Was he early? The thick wooden table-top with its patches of dark green paint gave no clue as to where the dropping had fallen. One of the backgammon players swore at the dice. “It’s not their fault,” laughed his opponent. While paying the bald, black-browed cafe owner Zeberjet asked when the fight would be.

  “No fight tonight. We stage them Wednesdays and Saturdays.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t miss on Wednesday. Tahsin Bey is putting up a new bird. He got it in Denizli the other day.”

  “What did he pay for it?” asked the third customer, still watching the game.

  “At first the other fellow played hard to get. Not for sale, I’ll never find the likes of this one again—you know. Finally he gave in. Tahsin Bey says he could have bought a horse for that amount.”

  “Sounds like Tahsin Bey all over.”

  “That’s right. Win or bust.”

  Zeberjet got to his feet. With a parting “Good night” he banged his arm against the door, and pain flowed from elbow to fingertips. He’d look for Ekrem at the movies. A tightness had come over his gut in the cafe, a malaise, but no aching. He overtook a leisurely couple strolling arm-in-arm. As he met and passed two teenagers one of them spoke. “Brother, you walk like a bull pisses,” and they laughed. He wasn’t weaving, was he? With a snap of his head he hurried on.

  At the box office the ticket seller told him the show had begun. “With double features we start at seven-thirty.” He mounted the stairs, holding to the smooth round metal railing. Inside he shuffled along in the feeble beam of light held by the usher, a young boy, and sat on the aisle, center section. There must have been a meager audience, the row next to him was empty. Muffled voices and the squeak of wooden seats came from behind. Two men on the screen were engaged in a kicking, head-over-heels slugfest. Zeberjet’s head swam. He shut his eyes hard.

  The tightness and malaise in his stomach, though still not painful, were worse now. Had he really drunk too much? Half a bottle of raki, counting his unfinished glass. A cracking and splitting on the screen drew several cheers from behind. Was his voice among them? Zeberjet twisted, saw blurred faces in the half-dark. A shiver went through him and he hunched down in his seat. On screen, a man and woman stood beside a car kissing. His eyelids felt dry and heavy. “Let me come with you,” said the woman. “No, it’s too dangerous,” replied the man. “But you won’t be safe either.” “I’ll be all right.” Zeberjet pressed a hand to his middle and rubbed. His forehead was in a sweat, and a numbness had come over him. Suppose he did spot Ekrem, what could he do about it? Well, tell him he felt sick, suggest they meet tomorrow night. Before eight in front of the movie house. There was a prolonged spate of gunfire followed by silence. A shout—“Wait! Don’t jump!”—and the lights came up. He gripped the arms of the seat to rise, glancing then at the faces around and behind him. Some were laughing and talking, others blank or dour. They were all alike, though, and all like him. Realize it or not, they had it in them to do whatever a human being was capable of. His arms began to tremble. Eyes wide he ran for the exit but lurched, catching at a pair of shoulder
s. “What’s the idea? Stinking wino!” The man pushed and Zeberjet sprawled flat in the aisle, where a few chestnuts rolled out onto the wooden floor. He managed to kneel and get the handkerchief out to press against his mouth. The half-dried softness he felt on his chin was bird goop—from that dove in the park. He wouldn’t be able to vomit. Put away the handkerchief.

  “What’s this filthy lush doing here?”

  “You reek, man.”

  “Get him out of here.”

  He had his hands on the floor to rise when someone hauled him up by one arm. The usher. “Come on, move it.” Zeberjet leaned against him, his feet dragging, and they made their way through the rowdy, laughing crowd and out. Going down the stairs he stumbled.

  “Easy now, hang on. What did you want to drink so much for?”

  “Stomach….”

  “Does it ache?”

  “Tight as a drum.”

  When they reached street level he let go of the boy’s arm and leaned on the wall.

  “Should I call a cab? Have you got the money?”

  “Right. Yes.”

  Two buggies stood in the side street. The boy called the one in front.

  “Halil abi! Bring it over.”

  With the outdoor cool his dizziness seemed to be subsiding. The buggy pulled alongside the curb and he staggered to it, climbing up with the boy’s help.

  “Where to?”

  “Altılambalı. Motherland Hotel.”

  “That’ll cost you ten liras.”

  “Have a heart, Halil abi,” said the boy.

  “The customer is king! You stay out of it.”

  Zeberjet got out two tens and gave one to the driver. The other he handed to the boy. “Sorry about all this,” he said.