Cemal laughed and started walking with big strides. He moved so fast that Meryem could hardly keep up with him. She was soon breathless. They had come to the outskirts of the village and were heading for the steep hill.
“Where are we going, Cemal?” Meryem asked.
“Over the hill … to Istanbul.”
Meryem was elated. She would not have to kill herself. “They are sending me to Istanbul,” she thought, “just like the other girls.” The image of the majestic city she had seen in her dreams stretching toward infinity formed itself in front of her eyes, and she was full of joy.
They were nearing the top of the hill now. Panting, Meryem took another step forward and heard someone say, “This is the city of your dreams.” She turned to see who was speaking, but no one was there.
At that minute Meryem realized that she was there in the barn, alone, and she began to weep silently. She was damned. A miracle was out of the question. The extraordinary things that happened to others were not part of her world. Neither Holy Hızır on his ash gray horse, nor Cemal would come to rescue her. Even Bibi had abandoned her.
As Meryem sat there sobbing, Cemal was discussing her fate with his father and uncle in the house a short distance away. “You’ve come back a hero, my son,” said the sheikh. “Your return has pleased us. But that girl—may she go to hell—has ruined our honor!”
Cemal nodded, but he was not paying attention. He was thinking about Selahattin. His friend’s wounds must have healed by now. Selahattin had given Cemal his address in Istanbul and told him to come to visit him. “Don’t forget me when you’ve been discharged,” he had said, “or, by God, I’ll come and find you.” But Istanbul was far away, and Cemal was penniless. How could he go there?
Cemal heard his father’s words only in fragments. “Our family doesn’t deserve this!” cried the old man. “But what can we do? It’s our fate.”
Cemal remained silent.
Immersed in his own thoughts, Uncle Tahsin said nothing, either.
Then something Cemal heard grabbed his attention.
“You must go to Istanbul, my son,” said the sheikh. “This girl is guilty in the sight of both God and man. If the bitch doesn’t wag its tail, the dog doesn’t follow … who knows what else she’s been up to on the sly? You know what the custom is, and it’s up to you to put things right. I know you’ve just returned home, but we can’t wait any longer. Everyone is talking about us and ridiculing our family! There’s no other man in the family capable of carrying out this task.”
Cemal at first thought it was just another of his father’s moralizing speeches, but then he realized what he was being asked to do. Startled at first, he then withdrew into his usual impassive self. It was as if everything was happening somewhere else. His father’s words held little importance for him. Meryem had to be done away with, and he was the one chosen to do it. That was all. It was nothing to make a great song and dance over. What was a human being anyway—just a creature that took only a second to die.
Of course, the deed could not be done in the village. “You’d be caught and put in jail immediately,” said the sheikh. “Take the bitch to Istanbul and finish her off there, far away, just as it has happened to other girls. You could stay at Yakup’s for a few days. Get rid of her in the big city, where no one will notice you, it’s so crowded. Or, do it on the road … but don’t get caught.”
Cemal found his father’s detailed plans tiresome. What was the point of talking about such a simple thing? He pitied the girl for a minute, but everyone knew that customs are customs and had to be followed. Meryem had no chance to survive. Even if her father forgave her, and the sheikh did not interfere, she still could not live. Even if everyone in the village came together to forgive her, she could not be saved. More important, by taking Meryem to Istanbul, Cemal would get the opportunity to see Selahattin.
Tahsin Agha was grimly silent. He had not uttered a word during the sheikh’s speech. He did not say anything to support his older brother but just sat there in troubled silence.
The women of the house were silent, too. They remained busy with their chores, one of which was stuffing a bag with Meryem’s few belongings.
Early the next day, Döne entered the barn. “Get up,” she said gruffly, rousing Meryem, “you’re leaving. You’re going to Istanbul.”
Meryem could almost have hugged the woman she hated. The miracle she had been waiting for had happened. “When am I going?” she asked.
“Right away.”
“Let me kiss the hands of my father and my aunt and ask for their blessing.”
“No!” Döne hissed. “You’ll not see anyone. Let’s go! You’re leaving now.”
Döne thrust a bag and a frayed green sweater into Meryem’s hands.
Without heeding Döne’s words, Meryem ran up the stairs and into the courtyard. The bright sunlight blinded her momentarily, but she did not stop. She ran into the house, crying out for her aunt. But all the rooms were locked. She knelt in front of one of the closed doors, sobbing desperately. “Auntie, please open the door! Let me kiss your hand! Give me your blessing.”
Meryem’s aunt had been like a mother to her, caring for her and teaching her about life and the right way of doing things. When Meryem had started school, her aunt had taught her to read. Although her aunt had taken pains to care for her, Meryem had always felt a certain coldness, even dislike, in her behavior. The woman performed her duties punctiliously, but when Meryem felt sleepy and wanted to put her head on her knees, she would always find an excuse to push her niece away.
Her aunt’s door was locked now, and no matter how much Meryem pleaded, it did not open. She had to face the fact that both the door and the house were closed to her forever. She had been expelled from the house where she was born without anyone bidding her farewell or wishing her luck.
Meryem heard Döne’s harsh voice, and she rose and walked out of the house, tightening her scarf around her head. Cemal was standing in the courtyard, casually smoking a cigarette. He was different somehow, like a stranger. He looked taller and older, no longer the boy with whom she used to roll a hoop. “Brother Cemal,” she murmured softly. He gave no answer but began to walk toward the village. Meryem followed him without a word.
Spring was coming. The snow had begun to melt, making the ground spongy. At each step, Meryem’s thin plastic shoes stuck in the mud. The sun seemed very bright to her eyes, grown used to half darkness for so long. It was not easy to say whether they were merely watering or she was, in fact, weeping.
As Cemal and Meryem passed through the marketplace, Mukadder, the attorney, noticed them. He was sitting outside his office, enjoying the sun and playing backgammon with his friends. When he saw Cemal followed by Meryem walking three paces behind, he stood up, along with the others, and walked toward him. “Hey, hero,” he called out, “are you off to Istanbul?”
“Yes,” Cemal replied brusquely, spitting the word out between his teeth.
Turning to Meryem, Mukadder smirked. “Well, well, aren’t you the lucky girl. Not everyone has the chance to see that city.”
His friends all laughed. There was something carnal in their grins.
Meryem wished she could disappear. Everyone in the marketplace had stopped their work. Men with big bellies and moustaches all gathered around them. They patted Cemal on the back and told Meryem how lucky she was. “You’ll probably forget this small village,” one said. “You won’t come back—just like the others. Why should you?”
Meryem was frightened. Since leaving the barn, a slight fear had started to take hold of her. She had grown accustomed to being defiant in the barn, but now she felt weak and vulnerable. For the first time in her life, she was the object of the villagers’ attention and felt ashamed of being the target of such interest. She imagined that the dogs were barking her name, the cats were meowing “Meryem,” and the birds were whistling at her.
Cemal and Meryem walked on with a group of villagers in tow. They passed
the cloth shop, the bakery, the police station, and the mosque. As they neared the school, Cafer ran toward them. His mouth was crooked, and his eyes had a strange expression. The crowd began to laugh. Cafer ran up to Meryem, stared into her face for a long second before beginning to cry. A few of the villagers picked up stones and hurled them at the half-wit. “Beat it!” they shouted. “You should be going to Istanbul, too!”
Cafer yelped like a beaten dog and scurried away.
Meryem saw Müveddet and her daughter Nermin among a group of women walking along the road. They must be on their way to visit someone’s home, she thought. She dashed forward and grabbed Müveddet’s hands, pressing them to her lips. “I’m going to Istanbul,” she said. “Please give me your blessing.”
Müveddet hesitated briefly, and then hugged Meryem. “I know, dear girl,” she said. “Everyone knows you’re going there. God be with you.”
Meryem also wanted to hug Nermin, her friend from primary school. With a quick glance at her mother, Nermin kissed Meryem, and whispered, “Good-bye.”
The other women wished Meryem a safe journey, telling her how lucky she was to go to Istanbul. “Life must be good there,” they said. “If it weren’t, the other girls wouldn’t have stayed.” In spite of their words, their tone made her feel she was being deceived as though she were a child. A few of them giggled, and so did the men nearby.
Meryem, eager to kiss her father’s hand and say farewell, looked anxiously for him in the crowd, but he was not there. She did not have the courage to ask why.
In the distance, Cafer let out a shriek and waved his arms wildly at Meryem. “Don’t go!” he screamed, but a shower of stones sent him running.
After spending so many days alone in the barn, Meryem was frightened of this attention. She wanted the comfort of one warm, reassuring face before she left the village. Turning to Cemal, she pleaded, “I want to see Bibi before I go. She will be upset if I don’t say good-bye to her.”
Cemal did not answer but directed his steps toward Gülizar’s house. The crowd followed them.
Meryem knocked on the door, but nobody answered. She felt a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps the old woman did not want to see her. She banged on the door, and the third time she knocked, Bibi finally opened it. Her eyes were red and swollen. Glancing at the crowd thronging the doorway, she hugged Meryem.
“I’m going to Istanbul, Bibi.”
“Yes, child,” the woman replied, her voice cracking. “I know.”
“Maybe you could come, too … later, I mean.”
“Maybe, my darling girl…”
Then a strange thing happened. Without any warning, she broke into a fit of weeping, hugging Meryem so tight the girl felt as if her ribs would crack.
Becoming calmer, she sobbed, “Forgive me.”
Meryem was stunned. She kissed the old woman’s wrinkled, bony hand. “Don’t cry, Bibi,” she said. “Please give me your blessing. You’ve done so much for me.”
“Forgive me,” Bibi answered. “Forgive this feeble old woman. I did try, but it was useless.”
Then she turned and shut the door.
The crowd followed Cemal and Meryem all the way to the bus stop, where three dilapidated minibuses waiting for passengers were standing outside the cemetery where Meryem’s mother was buried. “Please let me visit my mother’s grave,” Meryem begged Cemal.
He hesitated for a moment, but, looking at the passengers and seeing that the minibus was about to depart, he said sternly, “Get in.”
The passengers on the bus greeted Cemal, without even looking at Meryem. With a loud rumble, the vehicle set off, and the crowd waved. “Have a good trip,” some called out, laughing.
The minibus turned on to the main road and started toward the distant hill. Meryem felt faint. She had been in such a vehicle only once before. Then they had been on a trip to the public baths, with their bags and the bundles of food they had prepared. That time she was nauseated and this time it was the same. Clutching her ancient bag to her chest, she rolled herself up into a ball and gritted her teeth. She only had to endure the feeling of nausea until they reached the top of the hill. Once there, she would see Istanbul, and the journey would be over.
Curled up in her seat, Meryem began to think about something that had always puzzled her—the other girls who had gone to Istanbul. If it was only just over the hill, why had they not come back at least for a visit? Even on foot it should not take too long to go there and come back. Meryem decided that she would be different. She would walk back home as soon as all the trouble was forgotten. This promise consoled her as the village faded in the distance, and she became filled with the excitement of actually being in that wonderful city that so far she had only seen in her dreams.
As they came toward the top of the hill, her excitement reached a crescendo, and she shut her eyes. She wanted to see the city all at once spread out before her as it had been in her dreams. When she opened her eyes, the dreamy smile on her face quickly changed to bewilderment. They had crossed the hill, but there was no city to be seen, just a vast plain stretching out toward a line of hazy purple mountains in the distance. Farmers, tractors, and villages could be seen among the cultivated fields, and the narrow road wound among them like a snake. Every now and then, the windows of a passing minibus reflected the sun, sending a flash of light into Meryem’s eyes. She was confused, but did not have the courage to ask Cemal where they were. Her childhood playmate had vanished, giving place to a strange, frightening, older man.
“Was I mistaken?” Meryem thought to herself. “Maybe Istanbul is actually beyond those far-off purple mountains.”
A SAILBOAT ON THE OPEN SEA
This Benetau sailboat had nothing in common with the craft İrfan and Hidayet had sailed as teenagers. Their boat had started out life as a dilapidated two-and-a-half-meter-long rowboat, and they had worked hard for many days to make it into a sailboat, fashioning a makeshift mast and a cotton sail out of odds and ends. The result looked more like a toy than a boat, but it was on that boat that they had learned everything about sailing—how to handle the helm and rudder and how to read the winds, the stars, and the movement of the sea.
They had learned everything about sailing by themselves, as if learning to walk for the first time. Once you got used to doing it, you never forgot.
İrfan was able to determine the direction of the prevailing wind by the prickling of his neck, the roll of the waves, the vegetation along the coast, the seabirds, and the smell of the air. He sailed in the comfortable security of his childhood knowledge. The Benetau was a large three-cabined boat with all kinds of technological innovations including a sliding keel, making it easy to maneuver. The rental company in Ayvalık had been eager to offer the best boat available to such an honored client and was overjoyed when the professor was prepared to hire it for the entire spring and summer.
İrfan could have rented a boat in some other, nearer coastal town, but he had chosen Ayvalık. He wanted to start his journey from the spot where Hidayet had sailed out to sea so many years before.
The boat had been in need of some last-minute adjustments. Had he stayed in the town overnight, he would have had time to load provisions and make a few other arrangements. However, İrfan had been adamant in deciding to weigh anchor as soon as possible. Feeling as if his life depended on heading for the open sea that very night, he could not postpone his departure for a single day.
Early that morning, when he had woken up in his old bed in his mother’s house, he had known that he would spend that night at sea. As soon as he got up, his feet instinctively searched for his slippers. One of his mother’s inflexible rules was that you did not step on a stone floor with bare feet. With the passing years, his mother’s authority had dwindled, but İrfan was conscious that he still adhered to certain habits she had instilled in him.
İrfan started the engine, weighed anchor, and left the harbor. Tiny whitecaps dotted the green Aegean Sea. Islands stood out in the dis
tance. İrfan unfurled the sails and stopped the engine, letting the boat glide with the comforting tailwind. An occasional rub from a rope, the whistle of the wind, and the cries of seagulls were the only sounds he heard. He submitted himself to the will of the sea, as the noise of the town slowly faded behind him.
Although the young men working for the boat-rental company had fallen over themselves to help him, the professor had set out to sea with only two bags of supplies they had managed to get to him at the last minute. İrfan believed that at sea he could solve any problem. Hidayet had thought the same. Their small boat had capsized many times, and the sailcloth had often ripped, but they had always saved themselves, enjoying every moment of their adventures.
İrfan considered that it was the Greeks who more often had such strong feelings for the sea. They were the real seamen. Even though the Turks had lived on the Anatolian peninsula for a thousand years, they remained a steppe people, never becoming skilled seamen. But the spirit of Xenophon’s soldiers, who, after fleeing from the Persians, shouted “Thalassa, Thalassa!” upon reaching the Black Sea, must have somehow made an impression on the Turks now living on the Aegean coast. That “Thalassa” represented a belief: “We have arrived at the water, with which we are familiar. Now that we have reached the safety of the sea, we will surely find our way.”
İrfan had a similar belief to comfort him. Surrounded by phosphorescence, salt, fish, wind, the sun, and Homer’s wine-dark sea, he would be able to solve all his problems. Those who had not seen the Aegean in all its moods could not understand why Homer had called it the “wine-dark sea.” İrfan was now sailing at full speed over that same sea, which he would swear was wine-colored in the afternoon light. He could now try to escape from thoughts of the city, civilization, and all the rules that had oppressed him and follow his initial plan of finding a deserted island on which to spend the night.
The boat that was to effect the professor’s escape seemed to İrfan like a boat from some mythological fantasy, its sails filled with a wind from the Cyclades sent by Zeus, the king of the gods, to save the soul of its passenger.
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