by Latife Tekin
You tell me where the rosebuds are,
You bring the moon down to your little pool.
Where’s the teacher on his white horse?’
‘He’s somewhere as dark as my well.
Somewhere as cold as my water.’
The school children never did get their report cards that spring. Instead, they received eggs in return for the seventeen lambs they had found on the mountain. Once they had given up hope of seeing their teacher, they took to chasing ewes that were about to lamb and brought their bleating newborn back to the village. For a male they demanded one egg, for a female two. At Sergeant Behzat’s store they exchanged the eggs for sweets.
On spring nights Dirmit once again sneaked down to the water pump. At dawn she crossed the waterways, entered the village gardens and set out either to pick carrots or cut the long-stemmed cactus that grew on the slope where the white rock stood. Round and round in the linseed patches she tramped in search of bird nests. But no matter what she did she couldn’t forget her teacher. She asked the wind, the clouds and the migrant birds. Finally she stationed herself before the wing-gate of their house. Shouting, she stopped anyone passing by on horseback and stood in front of trucks with her hands raised. ‘What’s “commonist”?’ she asked of the visiting pedlar and the gypsies who were pitching their tents. Atiye picked up her rolling pin and went after Dirmit. One minute she chased her up to the sheepfold, the next she flung stones at her. Finally, when she realized that no amount of crying and pleading would ease her daughter’s mind, she pointed up at an aeroplane that was cutting through the clouds over the village. ‘Look up there, good-for-nothing,’ she told her. ‘That’s commonist!’ Dirmit took her mother’s word for it and thought ‘commonist’ was an aeroplane.
When spring turned to summer, Halit came to see his betrothed. As soon as he arrived he rubbed burnt peanut-shell blackening into his moustache, combed his hair to one side and wandered in and out of the house, singing of Zekiye. Atiye could hardly keep him at Akçalı even for two days. ‘You’ve taken to your father’s ways, boy,’ she muttered, as she finally mounted her horse to take Halit to Dizgeme.
Zekiye and Halit met in the stable, unknown to Rızgo Agha, Zekiye’s father. It was love at first sight. Atiye saw no more of her son until the time of the wedding because, as they were heading for their village that evening, Halit turned back from the Dizgeme plain. ‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ he shouted. But before Atiye could turn and ask him where he was off to, Halit had spurred his horse and galloped out of sight.
For many days Atiye searched everywhere for her son and sent out word in every direction that if he came home she would see to his marriage. Every other day she went back to Dizgeme, but still couldn’t find Halit. At last she sat down and composed a letter to Huvat, who was sufficiently moved by it to return with Seyit to the village. He had no sooner reached Akçalı than he was off again to Dizgeme. He spoke to Rızgo Agha and fixed the date for the wedding. Then he picked up a pitchfork and, shouting and swearing, chased Halit out of Rızgo Agha’s stable and brought him back home.
That Thursday a flag was hoisted for Halit and Zekiye, and an apple fixed onto the star and crescent so everyone could take a shot at it. The wedding feast was set up, in the stable for women and in the garden for men, with separate musicians hired for each group. Once traditional gifts had been exchanged between the bride’s village and the groom’s, the bride had to weep at Dizgeme, and the groom to dance at Akçalı. The young villagers chose Fancy Sami to be Halit’s best man and escorted the groom by the arm. They held up their mirrors to signal to the girls who were eligible for marriage, but they also did their ablutions and went to the mosque and sang hymns. At Dizgeme, on henna night, the women snipped side-locks in Zekiye’s hair, then rubbed burnt peanut-shell blackening on her eyebrows, reddened her cheeks and hennaed her hands. In Akçalı they hid the groom, in Dizgeme the bride, and neither was set free without a tip. On Saturday evening Zekiye arrived, weeping, in Akçalı to be Halit’s bride. Halit scaled the roof and rained down upon her head dried fruit, nuts and small change, which was quickly gathered up by the children. The bride and her mother-in-law embraced and kissed each other. Atiye smeared Zekiye’s mouth with honey and, before Zekiye stepped over the threshold, she broke a wooden spoon. Halit came down from the roof and took Zekiye by the arm. As the couple entered, the men danced the halay for the groom and were offered the wedding dinner afterwards. The village imam performed the wedding ceremony in secret, while the Headman authorized the marriage settlement in writing. The rest was left to Zekiye and young Halit…
The guests left one by one. Fancy Sami and Atiye first led Huvat and Rızgo Agha to the men’s lounge, then posted themselves at the newlyweds’ door to receive the bedsheet. But Atiye never got the chance to stand out on the veranda to proclaim to all and sundry: ‘I’ve got the title deed to my daughter-in-law!’ The privilege of taking the white sheet smeared with Zekiye’s blood and rushing joyfully to Rızgo Agha’s side to share the good news with him was also denied her. Beating her knees, she could only ask Fancy Sami again and again, ‘Did you tell Halit what to do?’ and wonder whether Zekiye was a virgin after all. And when the moon had faded away, and the stars dropped one by one out of sight, at morning’s first light, everyone in Akçalı knew that young Halit was bound by a curse.
A thousand and one rumours flew from ear to ear, as all the villagers gathered at the newlyweds’ doorstep. Halit locked himself in the storeroom. Zekiye wept in the bridal chamber, sobbing, her head lolling to one side and her hands tucked in her armpits. It was then that Atiye brought some visitors to see her daughter-in-law and extracted from her a promise that she would wait for Halit to be released. Then she took Rızgo Agha to see Zekiye so she could tell him her desires. In Atiye’s presence, Rızgo Agha asked his daughter three times whom she wanted, and each time Zekiye pressed her mother-in-law’s hand to her breast and stamped her feet on the bedroom floor. Rızgo Agha kissed his daughter on both cheeks and set out for Dizgeme, leaving Zekiye behind in Akçalı.
That evening Huvat argued and pleaded until at last he managed to get Halit out of the storeroom, and, when the time came for night prayers, they were both standing on Sheikh Hacı Musa’s doorstep in the village of Pir Abdal. At first, Hacı Musa turned them away, saying that he hadn’t opened any of his books or composed charms for a long time. However, when he discovered that they had come such a long way, he let them come in, had their horses put up in the stable and offered them ayran. He listened to each, asking them separately to describe what had happened. Next he had Huvat wait outside as Halit stripped from the waist down and stood before him. Then Hacı Musa took a seat, recited some prayers and blew them over Halit and inscribed some charms in fine writing on little strips of paper. He handed one to Halit, then put the others in a black pot and burnt them. And as they burnt he muttered and blew his prayers over them. After Halit had risen and dressed, Hacı Musa asked him to step outside and Huvat to come back in and sit before him. Then he opened up a thick volume, pored over some of its pages and began to come up with certain details one by one: two letters in the name of the person who had bound Halit with a curse, then the eye colour, height, habits and disposition. ‘This person is far removed from your family,’ he announced. ‘A dark, skinny person with a long nose and a stubborn nature.’ He explained that to bind up Halit, this person had tied forty knots in a length of red cord during the wedding, then thrown the cord in a dark place and sprinkled three handfuls of earth over it. ‘I’ve written out a charm, but it won’t be any use unless you find the cord,’ he told Huvat. If the cord could be found and a knot untied each day, then Halit would be saved. If not, he would remain bound by the curse for life. Hacı Musa concluded by saying that after they had found the cord and untied each of the forty knots, they would have to place three handfuls of earth from a fresh grave under Halit’s pillow. Huvat stood up, kissed Sheikh Hacı Musa’s hand and quietly slipped into his pocket what wa
s due in return for the charm. Then he called his son and was on his way again.
By the next morning Sheikh Hacı Musa’s words were common knowledge in the village. Everyone scattered to left and right, searching for the red cord with the forty knots. They examined every nook and cranny in the barns and stables of the village, as well as inside mattresses and underneath divans. At first Huvat promised a reward of two sheep to anyone who brought in the red cord with the forty knots. Then he raised his reward to three, four and, finally, five sheep. Head lolling on one side, her hand on her heart, Zekiye awaited the news that the red cord had been found. For days Halit wandered through the village with ashen face and lowered head. When Atiye saw that both her son and her daughter were wasting away, she ripped out the seams of all the mattresses and quilts in the household, scattering the wool everywhere. She dug up the thresholds one by one and looked everywhere, no matter how insignificant, including holes in the wall and the underside of the staircase. She had the doors and windows dismantled and walls pulled down, and confronted anyone who seemed to fit Sheikh Hacı Musa’s description. Finally she stood for prayers and went to bed each night hoping for the right dream. It was on her fortieth sleeping for this purpose that she discovered the location of the red cord. In her dream the white-bearded old man whose hand she had kissed led her to the ruins on the slope where Cingitaş Bekir’s field was. When Huvat heard Atiye’s dream, he rallied all the menfolk in the village behind him, and everyone in the search party explored a different ruin. A while later Huvat came back home for some rope. Picking both it and Dirmit up, he headed back to the blind well at the entrance to the ruins. Then he tied the rope around Dirmit’s waist and swung her down into the well, pulling her up, letting her down, swearing and cursing when she said nothing was there. ‘Look carefully, you donkey’s child!’ he shouted down at her, pelting Dirmit with stones. Finally, near evening, Dirmit emerged from the well holding the red cord with the forty knots. Each day the household grew more joyful as they untied one of the knots and sprinkled three handfuls of earth scooped from a fresh grave under Halit’s pillow. But Dirmit cowered and shrank back into a corner, feeling even smaller than she was. For many days black specks that turned from red to purple then grew larger and smaller flew before her eyes. No longer able to look at light, with tears and sobs, Dirmit finally started clinging to Atiye’s skirt so that she could go to the stable and the chicken coop or out onto the veranda and into the garden. And at night she would never sit down without leaning her back against her mother’s. Yet her fear grew each day instead of subsiding, and she got into the habit of holding onto somebody’s skirt, hand or foot.
While Dirmit cowered in fear, no longer able to slip secretly down to the water pump to watch the moon and the stars, Zekiye’s cheeks bloomed roses. Lovingly, like a waterwheel, she spun about Halit, arching her eyebrows and making eyes at him until he was utterly besotted. Even before dark he would start glancing at Atiye or asking Huvat out of the blue when he’d be turning in. In case his daughter-in-law should feel embarrassed, Huvat looked away. On some days he went to bed hungry and, on others, even before going to evening prayers. No sooner was his father in bed than Halit grabbed hold of Zekiye’s arm and dragged her off to the bridal room. So frequently was this scene acted out that Huvat began to feel too ashamed even to leave his bed. So he ate and attended to prayers there until he eventually came down with sleeping sickness. Atiye carried the wash-basin, the pitcher and the food tray to his room so that he could do his ablutions and have his meal. Since he now spent so much time in bed, Huvat’s thoughts took a new turn. ‘Atiye girlie!’ he would croon from time to time as he slipped around the front or back of her. Atiye grew tired of seeking ways to escape Huvat and of hauling water by the bucketful for Halit and Zekiye. ‘Clear out! Get back to work!’ she finally commanded, and drove her husband and son out of the village. Atiye heaved a deep sigh of relief after Huvat and Halit had gone, taking Seyit with them, but Zekiye moaned and beat her breast all day long. Every evening she sank back into a corner with her head lowered and, from then on, she always looked downcast.
Atiye had never discriminated against her daughter-in-law. Whatever she bought for Nuǧber she also got for Zekiye and dressed them up in the same outfit. Nor did she allow anyone to mistreat her. Unlike all the other married women in the village, Zekiye was never asked to weave carpets. So whenever a letter from Halit arrived, Atiye dressed her up and sent her off to Dizgeme, hoping that the visit would raise her spirits. But she couldn’t bring a smile to her daughter-in-law’s face, and Zekiye never became used to being either with her husband or without him. Then, one day, Zekiye pointed at her head and fell ill. The colour drained from her face and her eyes lost their lustre. ‘It’s fresh bride’s disease,’ one visitor announced, while others claimed that she had been struck by the evil eye. However, no one could prescribe a remedy for Zekiye’s trouble. To restore the colour to her cheeks, Atiye fed her sherbets made from kına kına seeds and black grape juice and gave her injections from scarlet-coloured vials, which she ordered from the city. Nothing worked. At last she wrote to Halit about Zekiye’s illness, calling him back to the village. When Zekiye heard the good news that her husband would be returning, she sat up in bed and started combing her hair. She also found her taste for food and drink had returned.
From then on Halit often escaped from work in the city to visit the village, and each time he brought with him a new gift for Zekiye. First he stripped the scarf from her head, and then untied the apron from her waist. Zekiye took off her socks and put on nylon stockings. Soon her name was on everyone’s lips, and the minute Halit left for the city, all the menfolk in the village began to get familiar with her right in front of her door. Atiye could neither take her to the fountain or to visit the next door neighbour. And when Halit came back he got into brawls with everyone. If he didn’t pick a fight with some village hothead, one of them picked a fight with him. Soon Halit and Zekiye fell out, and Zekiye stormed off to Dizgeme in a sulk. Atiye grew ill from beating her knees, and Halit headed back to the city. The household was left with no peace or order.
It wasn’t long before Huvat arrived in a rage, hollering from the very moment he set foot in the village square. He handed out thorough public beatings to two youths, and all those who had sniped at his daughter-in-law or picked a fight with his son found him on their doorstep hurling curses. His many years in the village were crowned with the reputation he now made for himself as ‘Police Chief Huvat’. Heading off to Rızgo Agha’s, he soon returned with Zekiye, who kissed her mother-in-law’s hand and once again donned her apron and covered her head. As for Huvat, he was so put out with the villagers that on the very evening he returned with Zekiye he set off again. ‘I’m sending young Seyit back to take charge,’ he announced.
Seyit arrived, but his coming created nothing but trouble. The thought that he was there to watch over the household never once crossed his mind. ‘I’m red-blooded, I am,’ he said, starting right in on Atiye, ‘so why don’t you marry me off too?’ Atiye had to deal constantly with complaints that her son kept putting himself in Elmas’s way and dallying with her. ‘The girl’s already spoken for, so don’t go chasing after her,’ she pleaded, but Seyit just ignored her. Every other day Elmas’s mother stopped by to complain, and her elder brother sent word too. ‘Tell him to stay clear of my sister,’ he threatened. ‘If it weren’t for Police Chief Huvat, I’d have already shot him.’ But Seyit wouldn’t give up. He stuck a pistol in his belt and some knives in his jacket sleeve and sock and went out to kidnap Elmas. She screamed so hard, however, that the village was instantly awake, and Seyit got stabbed and knocked down the stairs. Some youths picked him up and dragged him over to present him, drenched in blood, to Atiye, who collapsed on the spot. Following suit, Nuǧber fainted dead away beside her mother. Dirmit and Mahmut stared with sleep-glazed eyes at Seyit’s bloody chest, while Zekiye applied a handful of salt to his wound, rested his head on her arm and cried as she wip
ed away his sweat. By then, everyone who had got wind of the calamity had hurried over. Some men harnessed a horse to the cart, gathered Seyit up in their arms and headed off with him to the hospital. The women set up a watch over Atiye, who beat her knees without mercy but somehow made it through the night. The morning brought the good news that Seyit had escaped death. Delirious and murmuring Elmas’s name over and over again, he had fought off Azrael, the Angel of Death. He was out of the hospital by harvest’s end. When he got home, however, Elmas was already married off to her cousin, the twelve-year-old Ali boy, to whom she had been betrothed since her uncle’s death in the landslide at the Taçın quarry. For days after the wedding the villagers talked only of beautiful Elmas. How she had wept herself dry of tears because her heart belonged to Seyit. And how, bowing her head beside the boy, she had submitted herself to the memory of her uncle. They spoke in pitying tones of Ali and of Elmas but they also saved a few words for Seyit, who wandered aimlessly about the village, his hand on his chest. Fearing that her son might be up to some madness again, Atiye secretly wrote to Huvat, who showed up just before the weather turned cold. When Huvat arrived, he said nothing about his son’s close brush with death but beat Seyit thoroughly instead and took him back to the city.
The house grew silent and desolate. Winter arrived with the first dog snow, which blocked all the doors and roads. Everyone in the household forgot about what had happened. That is, everyone but Dirmit. Whenever she shut her eyes to go to sleep she saw her brother’s bloody chest and his weeping face as he leant against the wall. And when she opened her eyes in the morning, she would get out of bed at once and sneak off to visit Elmas. Dirmit silently fixed her eyes on Elmas. Elmas timidly caressed her and took her onto her lap. She combed Dirmit’s hair, pinked a handkerchief for her and made a rag doll on which she embroidered Dirmit’s name. No matter what Atiye did, she could not stop Dirmit from visiting Elmas. First she tried to scare her, saying that she would bring disaster on herself by visiting an enemy. Then she struck Dirmit and made her sit down beside her. She also accosted Elmas on the road. ‘Isn’t she a bit young for you to be playing with?’ she asked. But she couldn’t stop Elmas and Dirmit from fondly embracing each other by the water springs and the walls. Finally the thought struck her that Dirmit was fonder of strangers than her own family and that she preferred them to her mother and sister and brothers. To test Dirmit, Atiye called out to her quietly while she was asleep and asked her whom she liked more, her mother or Elmas. Jolted awake, Dirmit wept and put her arms around Atiye’s neck. ‘Get away, liar,’ said Atiye, roughly pushing her back. ‘You don’t really love us!’ But she only managed to deprive Dirmit of sleep and confuse her with all her questioning and harshness. Dirmit was so plagued by fear and doubt that she could no longer embrace her mother or get into bed with her. She roamed guiltily about the house, her head drooping. She tossed aside the rag doll Elmas had made for her and the pinked handkerchief that she had kept in her pocket, but she couldn’t rid herself of the memory of Elmas fondling her on her lap or caressing and combing her hair.