Suddenly, the barber’s hands stopped moving; or rather, they began moving again. It was almost as if I could see both places at once: this one here, and the one so far away. In one everything was moving; in the other everything had turned to ice. They merged, these visions, and then they drew apart.
‘Put the blade on the razor,’ said the barber.
The apprentice extracted the blade they’d used for Nuri and threw it into a plastic bucket under the counter. And now the man in the chair had a face of white foam, though the barber was still turning his brush to daub on more. It was almost as if he’d got carried away; with his left hand he held the man’s forehead like a vice, as with his right hand he lathered on soap with something that looked like an unbridled lust. There was even soap hanging like earrings from the man’s earlobes now.
‘Master,’ said the apprentice. ‘We’ve run out of razor blades.’
The barber stopped lathering, but his brush was still on the man’s cheek.
‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Buy five boxes at least. Make sure they’re Perma-Sharp!’
With that, the apprentice vanished.
8
The barber had pulled his chair up to the window. And there he sat, unblinking. The kettle behind the curtain had not come to a boil; but he was sure he’d hear it bubble any moment now. It had become something of a habit: leaving his seat by the window from time to time, to brew up some tea, returning with a huge glass to drink while he stared out at the village square. The tea helped, somehow; glancing at the mirror, he could see its sour taste reflected. And it took him away from the clouds gathering with such menace beyond that mirror, and from his own understanding.
He put down his glass and stood up. That same moment he noticed the divan saz on the wall, and the two flies strolling between its seven strings, seeking respite, perhaps, from their own relentless buzzing, while trying to memorise all the folk songs that these quivering strings could play. Just then, the kettle behind the curtain came to a boil; as he took it off the hob, the barber wondered how he had come to be thinking about these buzzing flies. He was fearful, almost, of the flies in his mind falling into the water boiling before his eyes, and so, while he was waiting for the tea to brew, he ceded to that other barber, still lurking inside the saz, and the flies launched into a new tune. Their wings shuddered as they struggled to keep time, but as the barber returned to his chair, the presence inside the saz fell silent. The flies dropped to the floor, only to buzz back into the air.
Just then, he caught sight of the muhtar. He was striding across the village square. Behind him was Reşit and his hunched shadow. The man was in a panic. He looked like he was going to curl up in the dust like a bug. The muhtar, for his part, was playing the muhtar better than ever; from his calm and measured steps, it was clear that he was seething.
He did not say a word until he reached the scene of the crime. He looked straight through those who greeted him as he passed. He ignored the red creepers that caused him to stumble, and the drifting heads of barley grass, and the four children who were trying to mount a foal they’d just captured. Entering Reşit’s courtyard, the muhtar stopped short, like a general, to sniff the air. It was almost as if he expected to find something hidden under the horse-cart, or the woodpile, or the wire mesh with the broken frame, the pickaxe lying on its side, or the shovel, or the wings of the chickens wandering around the coop. They were like people hiding secrets, these things – trying to act natural, trying not to stand out.
‘Gone without a trace,’ said Reşit.
The muhtar subjected the courtyard to another inspection. It was his belief that everything must surely leave a trace: without a trace, there was nothing. Even birds left their mark on the sky, as did words on teeth. Give someone a look, and you could see it etched on their face. It was almost as if Güvercin the Dove had never gone up those wooden stairs, had never left the feed bowl in front of the coop, or leant against the cartwheel on a sunny day to do her lacework, or pressed her nose against the window and sighed, or dangled her hair out of the window to look out on to the road: every trace of her had disappeared. There must be traces of her somewhere, or at least the traces of whoever it was who had stolen her away . . . There was too much surface detail, and perhaps, beneath that detail, there was a hidden vault. An empty space, even.
The muhtar searched Reşit’s eyes. He searched for an empty space, an empty space large enough for Güvercin to flutter her wings and take flight. He found nothing. ‘It must be only in women’s glances that you can find empty spaces like that,’ he thought, remembering Cıngıl Nuri’s wife. He walked over to the far end of the courtyard. Wherever he went, Reşit followed. But silently, and trying not to overtake him. It was almost as if he thought that before Güvercin could be found, all of the dogs of the village would have to stop barking, and the children complaining, and the cartwheels creaking. Only when the village felt silent would she let down her golden locks and make her way home. And that was why, as he tiptoed up the stairs behind the muhtar, he glanced up at a top-floor window, only to catch a glimpse of his wife crying. She couldn’t see them, as it happened; her eyes were downcast and her eyelashes moist. Her only thoughts were for her lost girl, as she sobbed through gritted teeth. It was as if she were lost, too. She seemed not to know she was sitting at the window, even.
When she heard the door open she turned her head to see a dishevelled old man standing next to her husband. For a moment, she couldn’t place him, but when she realised he was the muhtar, she put her head in her hands and began to wail. The wails rose in volume, as the muhtar scanned the room, as if to keep something from flitting away beyond his grasp. Then he squatted on the floor to inspect each and every colour in the carpets. He passed his hands over the curtains, to see whether the creases were fake or real. He went to the window to contemplate the view, compared the distance between the ground and window with the greatest height he could imagine a human leaping, and when all that was done, he ambled to the door with a furtive, knowing grin, so as to mask his disappointment at having found nothing.
‘Is her trousseau still here?’ he asked.
‘It’s all still here,’ said Reşit.
‘So was she in love with anyone, or anyone with her?’
‘I don’t know.’
Returning to the courtyard, they walked out to the cherry trees behind the house.
‘Of course you don’t know. Did you ask her mother?’
‘I did. She doesn’t know either.’
As they stood together in the shade, the muhtar looked back at the house. He conjured up the dimly lit rooms behind those adobe walls, and the croaking rusty doors, the soot-black hearths, the bags of chickpeas piled high and Reşit’s wife’s sobs. He took a few steps back. Then, as if escaping an unseen danger, he rushed out of the courtyard and vanished. Abandoned with so little notice, Reşit was at a loss, caught between wanting to go inside to shout at his wife and wanting to go after the muhtar.
Once again, the barber looked through the window and saw the muhtar. He was no longer hiding his panic: it was now there for all to see. The visor of his cap was turned upwards. In his hand were his amber prayer beads. He was kicking something across the ground, but that something wasn’t there. Resting his head on his hands, the barber fixed his executioner’s eyes on the village square. At that moment he saw a pair of feet coming straight towards him. He knew that gait well, and the properties attached to it (jaunty, but also very sad, and lazy in the way it carried its owner, and forlorn at being passed over, but also taking pride in every last stone or insect it encountered).
‘That’s the shoemaker,’ he thought.
He looked up; indeed, it was he. His arms were swaying at his sides so helplessly that the barber almost wanted to cry. But he didn’t: fearful of seeing things differently from everyone else, he preferred to think that nothing ever made sense. The shoemaker walked in, hiding his thoughts behind a smile as worn as the soles of his own shoes.
‘
Did you hear what happened?’ he asked, sitting himself down.
‘I heard,’ said the barber, ‘Güvercin has gone missing.’
The shoemaker looked shocked.
‘Who did you hear that from?’ he asked.
The barber did not reply. His eyes had travelled elsewhere, as he sat there, still as a stone.
9
When the watchman came rushing into the muhtar’s office, he found him bent over his desk, chain-smoking and staring at his official seal. When the door opened, he seemed not to notice. When it closed, he remained just as still. If it weren’t for the smoke pouring from his mouth, the watchman would have had no way of knowing if he was still breathing.
For many long hours, the watchman stood there waiting, shifting his weight from foot to foot. As the silence continued, he decided that his next task was going to be very difficult. With this in mind, he tried to straighten his posture, suck in his stomach, and puff up his chest. And then, to stop his eyes from wandering, he stared at a fixed point on the wall in front of him, in the manner of a statue of an unknown soldier, blankly compelling a general to cast aside his doubts and fight to the death.
The muhtar watched him in silence, through the shimmering clouds of blue smoke.
‘Sit down,’ he said, suddenly.
The watchman sat down. As he wedged his rifle between his knees, he realised that the muhtar had no assignment for him. He had called him here for help.
The muhtar swallowed a few times before saying, ‘Now think. Think carefully.’
The watchman had no idea what he was supposed to think about.
Then the muhtar asked, ‘Who in this village could kidnap a girl?’
Squeezing the rifle between his knees, the watchman looked down at the floor. He imagined himself leaving the muhtar’s office and walking towards the village square. Arriving at the plane tree, he stopped to look right, and then left. There, at his window, the barber was sitting alone, drinking tea. ‘He’s an odd one,’ thought the watchman. ‘No one even knows where he came from . . . Or if he’s married or not . . . Even so this barber doesn’t have it in him to kidnap a girl. Wherever would he hide her? It’s only a few square metres, that shop of his. It’s not even a proper shop. Half of it’s a house . . .’
He turned his attention to other houses, searching each window for clues that might help him answer the muhtar’s question. He cast his eyes over each door, each chimney and courtyard. But every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was the barber. So he went back. The barber was still drinking tea in silence. His eyes were fixed on the street to the left of the plane tree. Following the man’s strange gaze, the watchman turned left. And there was Cennet’s son; he was walking up to the top of the village waving some string above his head. Seeing this, the watchman dived into a side street. He seemed to be running away from something, this boy. He looked upset, but at the same time enlivened by the chase. He kept hopping out of view, like a flea. Then he started peeking into each courtyard he passed. He began to laugh, and each time he did, he emitted a cloud of grey smoke, as a cigarette stub lolled in his mouth, like a second tongue.
‘I’m waiting,’ said the muhtar.
Keeping his eyes on the floor, and speaking in a low voice, the watchman said, ‘I’m thinking.’
That angered the muhtar, though he continued to wait in silence.
Returning to his daydream, the watchman resumed his search. And now he had walked up as far as Cıngıl Nuri’s house. Cennet’s son was there somewhere. He came to a full stop. And then, with little clipped steps, he twirled around, to take in the fields, the orchards, the harvested chickpeas, and the ditches.
‘Have you had a good think now?’ asked the muhtar.
‘I have.’
‘And who comes to mind?’
‘Cennet’s son!’
The muhtar leant back and looked into the watchman’s eyes. Then he stood up. Furiously, he began to pace the room.
‘Don’t let him out of your sight,’ he said. ‘Follow him wherever he goes!’
‘So who is he supposed to have kidnapped?’ asked the watchman.
‘Reşit’s daughter.’
‘Güvercin the Dove?’
The muhtar nodded. The watchman nodded, too, and he kept on nodding, as his face grew longer.
‘Go now, and take a look at Cennet’s son. Find out where he is and what he’s doing. Once you’ve done that, send for Mustafa and Ramazan, so we can find out what they think!’
The watchman threw his rifle over his shoulder and set off.
Calling after him, the muhtar said, ‘Tell them to come with their horses!’
Then – as if to keep from being crushed by a burden too heavy for any man to carry – he collapsed into his chair. Whatever this burden was, it did not stop him standing up now and again to peer through the window. The truth of the matter was that he was afraid. Afraid of Güvercin’s sudden disappearance, afraid of the silence that had fallen over the village, and afraid of all that would follow it. The village had succumbed to despair, that much was clear. But he had no idea where this despair had come from, or what it meant. Whatever he saw, it impeded his view of what he really needed to see: it was the same with everything he touched, or tasted. What he resented most of all was that this despair carried no meaning; it was something that just descended on him, every time he was elected muhtar.
Hearing the pounding of horses’ hooves, he returned to his desk. The horses halted at his door and whinnied.
The muhtar threw his hat across the table.
‘Güvercin’s vanished,’ he said to the men walking through the door, ‘I have no idea how. Some devil must have gone and snatched her. So now I want you to each set off in opposite directions, to as many villages as your horses can take you . . . Ask every living soul you meet along the way if they’ve seen two shadows flitting past, or a girl on her own. Don’t forget that any muhtars you meet were elected or re-elected yesterday, just like me. So you must not forget to convey my congratulations. Come on to the subject gently. Ask if any strangers have come through the village recently. Don’t forget to ask shepherds – they may have seen or heard something, too.’
When Mustafa and Ramazan left the muhtar’s office, they came face to face with the entire village. The men and the boys had crowded around the door, to stare inside. The women behind them were struggling to restrain their tears with moans as thin as lace. That was all that could be heard, in any event: the moaning.
The crowd parted, to let the horses through. The women threw themselves against the walls.
‘Don’t come back until you’ve found her,’ cried one.
Pulling on the reins, Ramazan wheeled around; it was Güvercin’s mother who had spoken. She was crouching on the ground now, next to Reşit, her head swaying as she slapped her knees and cried.
The muhtar remained inside. Standing back from the window, he watched the crowd grow.
10
After watching the barber’s apprentice run down the street to buy more razor blades, the man in the chair dozed off again. With his face still lathered, he seemed to have turned into a different person: he seemed much calmer now than when he had first sat down.
But the barber still asked, ‘Would you like me to wash your face?’ The man did not stir. He seemed further and further away, as if he’d been asleep for hours, even days. The barber, meanwhile, took this silence as the man’s way of reproaching him for the delay. And so he set down his brush on the edge of the washbasin and turned his eyes to the street.
‘I’ve had enough of this apprentice,’ he said. ‘He’s getting worse every day. He’s as stupid as an ape.’
Once again, the man in the chair said nothing. And neither did he move.
Lighting a cigarette, I gazed up at the picture of the dove above the mirror. It seemed out of kilter somehow: it was hard to tell if it had spread its wings to take flight or to land. Its beak seemed angled for sudden flight. Though that could be an illusion, for
its eyes, its wings, its breast and even its claws seemed weighed down by fatigue.
To make up for any part I had played in adding to the grim mood, I turned to the barber. ‘That picture of a dove – did you do it yourself?’
‘I did,’ he said, coldly, ‘but you’ve asked me that before.’
‘I don’t remember that at all,’ I said, ‘I must have forgotten.’
‘You’ll doubtless forget again, and ask again, too.’
‘Well, as they say, life has a way of repeating itself . . .’
He sat down next to me, and fixed me with his executioner’s eyes.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘life repeats itself. And every repetition is a repetition of something else.’
11
Coming through the door, the muhtar spotted Cıngıl Nuri at the back of the coffeehouse, next to the partridge in its cage. Around him were the usual old men, resting their chins on their canes, or cupping their ears to hear what the others were saying, until falling silent to sink into their thoughts.
As the muhtar settled into the table to Nuri’s left, they turned their heads in unison.
‘Is it true that Reşit’s daughter has been kidnapped?’ one asked.
‘It’s true,’ said the muhtar.
He ignored the old men’s insinuating smiles. Instead he cradled his tea glass, as its heat passed through his skin. It felt good to say that Güvercin had been kidnapped, actually. It was better than saying she had disappeared. He was afraid of disappearances; they caused such uncertainty. They were so hard to see, or measure, or even grasp. For what had he achieved after Nuri went missing? Nothing! A nothing as great as the nothing he had left behind.
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