Dear Shameless Death

by Latife Tekin

  As soon as Halit had gone, Atiye sought a cure for Zekiye’s trouble and led her from one dervish-house to another. But she found no way of silencing her daughter-in-law, so at last she left Zekiye alone. To keep from becoming confused during her prayers, she began shouting them out as she fingered her beads. Her resounding voice and Zekiye’s constant chatter drove Huvat to bury his head inside his green books and to recite his prayers to himself. He swayed his head back and forth and kept the beat with his feet to avoid reciting wrongly and committing a sin. However, he too ended up accompanying his wife and his daughter-in-law as he intoned his prayers with a hand cupped over his ear. When all three voices peaked in three different modes, Mahmut fled the house to spend his nights at Rose Hairdresser’s. Covering herself in a blanket, Dirmit collected her books and moved into the toilet, where she stood on one foot with her back against the wall doing her school work. Seyit avoided coming home at all, while Nuǧber, whose presence seemed to have hardly any effect on the household, cowered more like a rabbit than ever and stayed silent. She crept about the house on tiptoe with a lowered head, jumping out of her skin each time Huvat raised his voice, Atiye shouted ‘Oh Allah!’, and Zekiye beat down the weft while possessed by a talking fit. And every time Nuǧber jumped out of her skin, she sucked in her breath fearfully so that Dirmit was able to make out her grief-stricken sigh through the surrounding clamour. Her blanket on her back, she often left the toilet to sit beside her elder sister and converse quietly with her. And she was finally able to understand why Nuǧber leapt out of her skin in fear.

  From then on, Dirmit carried letters from Nuǧber to a young boy with long fair hair, brought his messages back with her and bore greetings to him. On her return from school she would be met by Nuǧber, who either hugged Dirmit joyfully or looked downcast and scolded her. Some days Dirmit found the boy with the long fair hair waiting under the mulberry trees for a letter. Other days she returned with the letter still in her bosom. Meanwhile, Nuǧber knitted a blue vest for the boy with the long fair hair and crocheted his initials side by side with her own, making a double-row pattern round the waist and the armholes, working each stitch in secret, without her mother and father knowing. Dirmit then set off with the vest tucked under her arm and went round and round the mulberry tree in search of the boy with the long fair hair. But she didn’t find him. The next day she again set forth and waited under the mulberry tree, but the boy with the long fair hair didn’t show up. Dirmit couldn’t bring herself to return home with the vest. The tears welled up in her eyes and then slid one by one down her cheeks as she stood under the trees. Finally she ran off, still crying, to see the birdie-bird plant.

  ‘Birdie-bird plant, where’s the house of the boy with the long fair hair?’

  ‘Why do you want to know, Dirmit girl?’

  ‘My elder sister knitted a vest for him, that’s why.’

  ‘Didn’t he come to wait beneath the mulberry tree?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  The birdie-bird plant slipped the vest out from under Dirmit’s arm and looked for a long, long time at the pattern round the waist and armholes. Then she directed Dirmit to go and leave it under the mulberry tree and promised her that the fair-haired boy would pick it up, put it on and feel pleased. So Dirmit went back to the mulberry tree and placed the vest under it, then hurried home and told Nuǧber that she had presented the vest to the boy with the long fair hair. ‘Was he pleased?’ Nuǧber asked her every once in a while. ‘What did he say?’ Dirmit made up a huge lie, saying that the fair-haired boy had immediately put on the vest and as he stretched it down at the waist declared: ‘May health be on her hands!’ Hugging Dirmit and stroking her hair, Nuǧber whispered in her ear, ‘If I get married, I’ll take you to live with me.’ Dirmit nodded her head and looked at the floor. Back in the toilet, instead of studying, she wept her time away. The next morning, as soon as she was out of bed, she ran off to check under the mulberry tree, but the vest wasn’t there. Recalling how the birdie-bird plant had sworn what would happen, she felt delighted that the fair-haired boy had come and taken the vest.

  It was around this time that Rose Hairdresser’s, where Mahmut had sought refuge from his noisy household, closed down. Now unemployed, Mahmut wandered about for a few days and waited for his friends from school to come and play in the park. When he grew tired of watching out for them from the railings, he found himself a job at another hairdresser’s in a distant neighbourhood. Once more he jabbed a rat-tail comb in his hip pocket, wielded a hairbrush and resumed his hairdressing. On his first day of work his boss pulled him aside and advised him that if he wanted to earn big tips, he should pretend to be an orphan. Feeling bewildered, Mahmut first told some customers that he had lost his mother and informed others that his father had died. While he sometimes confused his lies, he eventually became accustomed to his role as an orphan and said: ‘When my mother died, my father found himself a mistress and forgot all about us.’ Stationing himself before the women who tossed their hair as they walked out, he hung his head to one side, curled down his lips and sighed. To add more pity to his plight, he began to spend nights in the shop. His tips did grow ever larger, but now he worried that as long as he was playing the orphan he couldn’t spend the money as he wished. While it ate at Mahmut that he wasn’t able to buy a clean shirt and trousers, he couldn’t give up his tips or the idea of clean clothes either. Finally he started to don clean garments and admire himself in the mirror after the customers had left; then, in the morning, he put on his old ones again and hung his head. So he enjoyed his clean clothes at night and his tips from women with gold and silvery hair during the day.

  But eventually he got more than he bargained for. Those women who pitied him started taking him home with them. Mahmut slept in glittering rooms while the women caressed his hair, touched his private parts with flaming fingertips and panted in his ear. He breathed a different scent each night, but the fragrance he liked best of all was that of Sevcan, who did the manicures and couldn’t keep her hands off him in the shampooing room. While she stroked his hair and blew her warm breath into his ear, Mahmut, out of his boss’s sight, sat on Sevcan’s lap, undid her buttons and buried his fear-reddened face in her heaving breasts, his head in a whirl. At night, Sevcan took Mahmut home with her, fed him lavishly and bedded him down as soon as she had tucked her children in. Horrified by her loud whispers, Mahmut ducked under the quilt as soon as she left his side. He never breathed a word to her about his fear – or about anything else for that matter. He never revealed how embarrassed he felt when she undid her hair and fixed her black eyes on him. Nor did he confess that he hadn’t a clue why she did all those things to him. Whenever their eyes met, he let his head droop; and each time he did so, she tilted up his head, plunged her fingers into his hair, bared her breasts and groaned. One day at noon he found that he couldn’t put up with it anymore and fled the shop.

  As he hurried off, Mahmut kept glancing back to see if Sevcan was following him. Although Sevcan didn’t come out after him, she did await his return for many days. Mahmut never went back. For a long while he couldn’t block out Sevcan’s whispers, and even when he had freed himself from them, he was still haunted by the woman who used to have her nails done by Sevcan. ‘Make my fingers bleed!’ she would moan. ‘Let the blood flow! Blood!’ Then she would look at her bleeding fingers and burst out laughing. Mahmut watched her stretch her lips in the dark and laugh in his face as he tossed and turned in his bed. ‘Why don’t you go to sleep, boy?’ Huvat yelled. But Atiye scolded her husband. ‘Let the boy be and mind your own business,’ she said as Huvat grumbled and drew the quilt over his head. And after he had fallen asleep, Atiye heaved a deep sigh of relief. Thanks to Mahmut she no longer had to get up reluctantly at midnight to light the stove and wash. She crept over to Mahmut’s bedside and admonished him not to go to sleep at night, promising that she wouldn’t send him to work if he slept all day instead. ‘Leave me alone,’ Mahmut retorted peevishly, but Atiye i
gnored him and was soon fast asleep.

  Mahmut lay awake watching the pale light from the street lamp vanish into the quilt’s folds and listening to the others’ rhythmic breathing as he waited for morning and prayed that daylight would fall upon him soon. But what appeared instead was the image of a slant-eyed woman cuddling a dog in her arms. Bending closely down over Mahmut, she showed him her arms and legs, which were scratched and bitten all over by her dog. Mahmut shot bolt upright in his bed and inched back further and further. Then the dog suddenly bounded from the arms of the slant-eyed woman and landed on him, baring its teeth and snarling. In an instant, Mahmut was out of bed, standing on a chair, screaming. Dirmit, who was the first to be awakened by her brother’s screams, helped him down from the chair and put him back to bed. Trembling and crying, Mahmut clung tightly to his sister’s hands.

  Mahmut and Dirmit then tucked away their tear-stained pillows under their quilts and crept quietly out of the room before daybreak. Tiptoeing along the landing, they hoisted the ladder and climbed onto the roof, where, sitting cross-legged on the red shingles, on one of the city’s highest hilltops, they became friends. Every night thereafter, as soon as the others had gone to sleep, they sneaked up to the roof. There they bared their sweaty breasts to the wind and cuddled up close to watch the twinkling of the distant lights, the gleaming sea and the moon that glided and rustled over the hills, parting the grey clouds. The moon sailed over and paused just above them, the sea thrust its foaming waves right up to the stars as one by one each star blinked out. But one night when Atiye discovered Mahmut and Dirmit smoking on the roof, she hustled them downstairs and thrashed them both.

  That winter Mahmut found himself a job in an advertising agency, but Seyit was left idle. Occasionally he bowed his head and pocketed Atiye’s savings that were stashed away in medicine boxes, but at other times he felt too ashamed to do so. He couldn’t bear it when his father raised his head from his green books and looked at him sharply. Nor could he pretend to ignore Nuǧber’s dressmaking work or Zekiye’s downcast look.

  After a while Seyit started to keep an eye peeled at Blind Yusuf’s coffee-house for Dirty Hasan. As soon as Dirty Hasan appeared, Seyit would offer him his seat and ask, ‘Got any orders for me, brother?’ In return for his reverence, Dirty Hasan presented Seyit with a revolver to stick in his belt, dropped some bullets in his pocket and instructed him in the ways of a neighborhood tough guy. Seyit was quick to learn and put into practice all that he was told. After he had beaten up someone and sworn at everybody in the coffee-house, he beat up somebody else and swore not only at those in the coffee-house but also at the adjacent neighbourhood’s tough guy. Three days later he received from the tough guy a stiletto tipped with dried blood. Seyit stuck it into a coffee-house table and, while the knife stood there glinting, he called out to Blind Yusuf, ‘Bring me some cold tea, Chief!’ Everyone slunk back into a corner and cowered there. With trembling hands, Blind Yusuf brought over the cold tea and set it before Seyit, who produced a bullet from his pocket, dropped it into his tea and stirred it around. Taking a sip, he bellowed at Blind Yusuf, ‘How come the tea’s cold, Chief?’ Blind Yusuf rushed over to Seyit’s side, clasped his hands over his stomach and, in front of everyone, begged him, ‘Take pity on my family!’ Then he pulled out a wad of banknotes and placed them beside the tea. Are you a man, Chief?’ Seyit demanded, pocketing the money. ‘I’m not a man,’ Blind Yusuf moaned. ‘I’m a woman!’ Seyit yanked the knife out of the table and thrust it up against Blind Yusuf’s neck. ‘Say it louder, Chief,’ he commanded. ‘Loud enough so everybody can hear.’ ‘A woman!’ Blind Yusuf shouted. ‘I’m a woman!’ While he was still screaming, Seyit banged open the coffee-house door. ‘They call me The Panther!’ he roared as he plunged into the dark streets. ‘Get out of my way!’

  When Huvat heard that Seyit was running a protection racket, busting up cinemas and coffee-houses and beating up anyone who looked at him sideways, he at once stuck his green books under his arm and started out after his son. When Huvat confronted him, Seyit said, ‘You’re butting into my action, old man!’ and pulled a knife on his father. Huvat came home weeping and, holding the family as his witness before God, disowned Seyit. Then Atiye went out after him. Prayer beads in hand, she stood waiting at the door of Blind Yusuf’s coffee-house. When Seyit came barging out into the street, hollering, she spat at him: ‘Why dont you just drop dead?’ Then she grabbed him by the waist, laid him flat out on the ground in front of the coffee-house, spat on his face before everyone and led him home by the hand to face his father. However much Seyit snuggled his head against Huvat’s chest to win his father’s forgiveness, Huvat wouldn’t offer him his hand. The more Seyit tried, the more Huvat acted like a coy bride. He pretended to weep, but finally picked up the money that Seyit had taken out of his pocket, stuffed it into his own and proffered his hand. That night Seyit listened to his father’s recitation of a long Hadith of the Prophet on dealing in dirty money. However, it went in one ear and out the other. Early the next morning, he raided the coffee-house frequented by the other neighbourhood’s tough guy. ‘From now on you boys are going to pay insurance money to me,’ he said, leaving as his signature three bullet holes in the wall. This rubbed Ahmet the Sword up the wrong way, and after rounding up his men he descended on Blind Yusuf’s coffee-house, installing himself at the very back table. Lowering one eyebrow towards his moustache while raising the other one, he stared daggers with one eye at those around him as he smashed empty glasses, threw cups out into the street and raged at anyone who so much as glanced his way. Upon hearing the news, Seyit sent word to Dirty Hasan to set up an ambush. When Dirty Hasan arrived and made his sign, they gripped each other’s biceps, wrestled about and threw each other a few playful punches. Then, spinning the chambers of their revolvers, they charged off and brought Ahmet the Sword’s house down around his ears. Ahmet the Sword kissed the soles of Seyit’s feet and got out of his way. From then on, Seyit’s star shone brightly as his reputation grew, and no one muscled in on his action. Not even the most high-rolling thug could pass him by without deferring: ‘Got any orders for me, brother?’ He dug his heels down onto the back of his brand new shoes, unbuttoned his silk shirt all the way down to his waist and hung a gold horseshoe around his neck, which earnt him the nickname ‘Horseshoe Panther’. In a short time he was collecting protection money not just from one or two but seven neighbourhoods as well as providing for widows and orphans. He was a father to the good, bad news to the bad. Those with scores to settle would kiss his hands and feet. Seyit never turned anyone away. If someone needed a beating or a house needed to be raided, he took matters into his own hands, offering his arm to anyone who was suffering a misfortune. As both a racketeer and a man who turned a profit, he won a place in his father’s heart. Huvat broke open his green books and blew prayers after him. He permitted Seyit to smoke in his presence and to shine up his stiletto and spin the chambers of his revolver. After he had bowed in daily prayer, Huvat offered his salutation each time and implored Allah to multiply the strength and power of his son. Upon hearing these words, Atiye would cover her heart with her hand and feel an aching deep within, as her flesh grew tense and her eye twitched. Then she would withdraw to her seat on the divan in front of the window to keep an eye on the partly lit street and wait for her son to come swaggering home. Dozing off on the cushion she had placed under her head, she would awake with a start and go over to check her son’s bed.

  Finally one day she began to shake with illness and gathered everyone around her bedside. ‘This time,’ she said, ‘I’m on my way. May Allah look upon you.’ Then she fell silent. Huvat enquired if Atiye had some last wish. In a sulk, she tossed about in bed, then alarmed everyone with her reply: ‘I have no other wish but to die.’ She didn’t want irises to be planted on her grave, one for each of her children. Nor did she long for two leaning poplar trees to sway in the wind at the head of her grave. All she wanted was for Dirmit to keep going to school and for Se
yit to remove the gun from his belt and the knife from his sleeve. Instead of making a fuss by directing them to find her brothers and sisters and making Nuǧber sit in the window, she only said, ‘Try hushing Zekiye up. See if you can find a way to remedy her trouble. She’s not a stranger but a sister’s daughter, so treat her like your own sister. If any money turns up, send some to young Halit.’ Then with a groan she shut her eyes. As she slept she had a talk with her mother-in-law, Nuǧber Dudu, who opened her arms wide and reproached her daughter-in-law, reminding her that for many a springtime now she had been waiting for her at the Alacüvek graveyard. Atiye awoke in a sweat. Interpreting the dream, Huvat concluded that he had to go to the village and visit his mother’s grave. Then he turned and asked Atiye gently, ‘Girl, if you die should we bury you at Akçalı, too?’ ‘Don’t drag my dead body there,’ Atiye replied. ‘Don’t carry me far away from my children.’ Huvat nodded, gathered up his books, picked up some money from Seyit and headed off to the village.

  No sooner had he left than Atiye was back on her feet, recovered, and Seyit had bought himself a brand new suit, terminated his underworld activity and set himself up as a building contractor.