Soon there were only two soldiers left at the well. One was very dark and skinny. As he pulled up the bucket, he seemed to bend over double, his legs quivering like two branches fading green. The harder he pulled, the more he puffed up his sweaty cheeks, which glistened like balloons in the hot sun.
Just then, the soldier caught sight of the pigeon.
He saw it by chance, while he was straightening out the rope. With a quick nod he pointed it out to his companion.
And that was when the bird locked eyes with Ziya. Ziya rose from his bed at once, groping his way to the window. First, of course, he passed the yard to the left of the guardhouse. Here the soldiers were trying to boil their water. Their sooty canisters stood steaming on top of their piles of stones. Clouds billowed above them, parting now and again to offer Ziya glimpses of the soldiers as he walked on to the edge of the minefield, and into the city streets that spread out as far as the patrol paths of the rear lines. Just then he saw the bookshop they’d spent so much time in. Its window was full of newly published books, but he didn’t stop; instead, willing himself desperately forward, he weaved his way through the chattering car horns, and pressed on to the skyscrapers. Cutting through this district, he kept on, past parking lots with their rows of insect cars, past the great markets lit by many thousands of lights, each one piercing the darkness with an unmatched power. Past viaducts, and past anonymous warehouses. Through a dark neighbourhood ruled by automobile repair shops and scrap-metal dealerships and into the back streets, deeper into the city and then deeper still, until he felt as lost as a distant, fleeting shadow in a shop window. It would be more accurate to say, though, that a moment arrived when he thought he truly was lost. And it was at this precise moment that he saw the deserted streets of his hometown looming up behind the watchtowers, and so this was where Ziya now headed.
He was no longer agitated: after walking through such chaos, it calmed him to see these white one- and two-storey houses, those woods rising above them to the left. With every step, the scent of orange groves seeping into that calm grew stronger, and so, too, did the cries of the seagulls circling in the sky above, the red, red crunch of pomegranates, and the clatter of horse carriages rolling over cobblestones. And the crunch of insects, which began to sparkle at that moment like shattered glass. By then Ziya had reached the historic fountain, the one with all those ancient words scrawled over it, and he was turning right into the town’s central square. He walked on slowly, looking this way and that, stopping some distance from the shops that lined the square. When he was a child, he’d bought his sweets in these tiny little shops. And his balloons, and his chickpeas, from shops that seemed now to be no larger than ice chests. There were a few – just a few – people going in and out, carrying paper bags and straw baskets. And in the square, in the shade of the great rustling plane tree, he could still see Ali the Snowman amongst the children. He had taken the saddlebag off his horse’s back, and now he was trying, with some effort, to roll one of his snow wheels on to a table covered in oilcloth. As he rolled it with his purple hands, the snow began to melt, dripping down the sides of the oilcloth. When this water reached the ground, it turned into a cooling, freshening pool that began to flow towards the children’s feet. By now the snow press was spinning at the desired speed. Ali the Snowman glanced over at his handsaw. Picking it up, he began to hack at the snow wheel.
The children took one step closer to the snowflakes flying from the handsaw’s blade.
And then, very suddenly, one of them asked Ali the Snowman if he knew the location of the snow well up in the mountains. He asked this as if it was something this man kept secret.
Ali the Snowman gave no answer, of course. He muttered something to himself, in a husky voice that seemed as strange, and as purple, as his swollen hands.
‘I asked you for a reason,’ the child now said. ‘I happen to know where that well is.’
He did not bother to raise his head, but Ali the Snowman erupted. ‘You don’t know shit!’ he snarled. ‘For twenty years now, I’ve been the only one who knows where it is.’
‘He really does know, honestly,’ cried another child, rushing to the front. ‘He told us all about it. Last year, when you went up there to cut out snow, he followed you.’
And suddenly, Ali the Snowman stopped moving. Fixing his eyes on the tip of the handsaw that was lodged deep in the snow, he stood very still, and breathed in deeply.
Exchanging glances, the children began to snigger.
Then the boy who had asked the question put his hands on his hips. Leaning back on his heels, he said, ‘If you give me a lump of snow for free, I won’t tell anyone where your well is.’
And then Ali the Snowman let go of the handsaw. Wet or not, he put his hands on his hips, and mimicking the boy’s voice, he said, ‘So tell me, my young lord. What if I say no? What will you do then?’
‘I’d tell everyone,’ the child replied. ‘And then, by God, we’d head on up there, all of us, and plunder it!’
‘So you’re saying you’d plunder it?’
‘Yes we would,’ declared the boy.
A vein was bulging on Ali the Snowman’s left temple. It ticked like a subcutaneous clock.
‘Every time, the same old tune,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Dear God, give me patience! I’ve had enough of this. But you . . .’
The children fell silent.
Ali the Snowman cast them a disparaging look, and then he turned his green-flecked eyes away, and for the longest time he stared up at the cliffs overhanging the woods, and the slopes rising above the cliffs, and the shimmering purple summits, reaching up to the clouds. He stared up at them saying nothing, nothing at all. It was almost as if he was trying to make sure the snow wells were still there.
Then he turned back to the children and in an irritated voice he said, ‘You don’t have it in you. None of you. Go away before you drive me crazy. Be off with you! All of you! Now!’
But the boys just stood there, staring at him. They did not budge an inch.
‘As God is witness,’ Ali the Snowman said now. ‘I’ll pull you up over this snow wheel of mine, and one by one, I’ll chop off your little dicks! Do you hear? No money, no snow. Get going! Now!’
But the boys, of course, did not obey him. They just stood there, greedily eyeing the snow. Then one of the boys pushed Ziya gently aside to step outside the crowd. He had freckles all over his face, this boy. His hair was blond, his skin dry, and his chest was heaving like a bellows. As he made to return to his work, Ali the Snowman peered down at him warily.
‘It’s such a hot day,’ said the boy. ‘Look – it’s burning like an infidel’s pussy here. Why can’t you give us each a lump of snow – what’s stopping you?’
Ali the Snowman did not so much as move his mouth. He just waved his arm, glaring down at the boys as if to say, ‘Enough! Just go!’
And then, without warning, the boy lunged at the table.
When he saw this happening, Ali the Snowman swung around to fend him off, but it was too late. As he was turning, his arm went flying out and hit against the handle of the handsaw that he’d lodged so deeply into the snow wheel. And then, before he could ask himself what he had let himself in for, the snow wheel went flying off the oilcloth, and, leaving behind it a cool patch of nothingness, it hit the ground with a bang and disintegrated. And needless to say, Ali the Snowman did not know what to do. He just stood there, staring at the table, his eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open. The boys seized this opportunity to scatter like a flock of baby birds. In groups of three and four they flew off to take shelter in shop doors, side streets, and the nooks and crannies of distant courtyards. ‘You come back here, you pimps!’ he bellowed as he raced after them, stopping every now and then to stamp his feet, but he did not catch a single one. He just stood there in the middle of the square, waving and yelling, like a flag made of fury. And from time to time his voice would begin to crackle, and then a bolt of lightning would flash across the
square, making a mind-splitting noise as it radiated out to catch the fleeing boys by the heels.
In time they straggled back, these breathless threesomes and foursomes, to gather around the old fountain. Their tongues were hanging out, of course, and so were their shirts. Their faces were red from fear and from running.
Even though they’d scattered far and wide, a few of them were still glancing over their shoulders, just to make sure Ali the Snowman wasn’t coming after them.
Seeing the fear in their eyes, the freckled boy told the others not to worry. ‘He’s given up on us by now, for sure.’
Clutching his stomach, another boy bent down to the ground and, in a feverish staccato, said, ‘He blew. His fuse. For good. You watch. He’ll be back.’
The freckled boy said nothing. But there was contempt in his stare.
And then, with a knowing and supercilious look, he said, ‘If I say he’s not coming, he’s not coming. Why don’t you use your brain for once? Do you think he’d leave the square, with all that snow scattered everywhere?’
‘He’s right,’ an older boy agreed. ‘There’s no way he’d leave the square. He’s probably busy picking it all up now. But the moment he’s done, we’ll hear him cawing again. Snow for burning hearts! Snow for all your aches and pains!’
‘I’ve never figured that one out,’ said another. He was sitting on the edge of the basin with his friends, leaning into the gurgling water. ‘As if snow cooled the whole body. What can snow do for a heart?’
‘When a heart gets burned or broken, it’s outside the body, that’s what,’ said the older boy. ‘Maybe it’s the body that’s outside the heart when that happens? But how should I know? As if I could know that kind of thing.’
And then he stretched out his arms, as if to leap into the sky. He bent his legs, stared into the distance and bent his legs lower. And then all of a sudden, he cried, ‘I’m so bored. Sooo bored. Let’s go and stone some birds!’
The boys came back to life with this suggestion. ‘Let’s go. Let’s stone some birds!’ some cried, their faces brightening. Others jumped for joy. Some, retrieving slings from their pockets, made as if to set their sights on imaginary birds. A few crouched down to gather stones, of course. Still crouching, they waddled across the ground like ducks, pocketing stones the size of marbles. And if any boy began to flag, another boy would urge him on, saying, ‘We need as many bullets as we can get, my boy!’ Sometimes they began to race against each other, as if gathering the last stones on earth. Others joined, circling wildly around the fountain, screeching and swooping, sly as hawks.
Unnerved by their bloodlust, Ziya could do no more than watch until one of the boys stepped away from the pushing and the shoving to run in his direction. ‘Hey! You! Why aren’t you gathering stones?’
Ziya would have answered, had he been given the time. For the boy who’d asked the question now jumped up so fast he left behind a blur the colour of his shirt. A weird and deathly wind blew in – a wind as wild and loud and heartless as the boys who had given birth to it – as the boy before him doubled over, snatching the sliver of time he’d have needed to form an answer.
Then they were off, in leaps and bounds, pausing every now and then to kick a hedge, a wall, or a pile of stones. Off they went to the edge of town to line themselves up in a row as they reached the grass.
They were still lining themselves up when the older boy said, ‘Whatever you do, make sure you don’t stone any swallows.’
He said this sternly, with a frown and outstretched arms.
‘Why not?’ asked a bleary-eyed boy who was scratching his neck. ‘Why shouldn’t we stone them?’
‘I don’t know why, OK?’ said the other. ‘Just don’t stone them.’
With these words, he took the lead. As he crept through the brambles, he kept his catapult raised and his eyes on the ground. The others licked their lips, glistening like blisters, and scattered. As they scrambled through the undergrowth, they were lost to the sun’s glare. Now and again they would pop up out of nowhere, clutching their catapults, only to be drawn back into the grass-scented hush that settled more heavily with every footstep. Suddenly, they all came to an abrupt halt. With narrowed eyes and bated breath they gazed out at the bushes amid the thickets of trees, the reeds lining the stream and the distant slopes beyond them. Not a muscle moved – until the eldest sprang back into action, of course. Propelled now by the heady scent of blackberry blossoms, they followed suit. As they made their way through the orange groves, some jumped up to tug at the branches hanging over them like gathering clouds to see them spring back. The sun beat down on them, burning their nostrils with each new intake of breath, while a ghostly and shimmering mist settled over the hilltops, the riverbeds, and the outcroppings of rocks. As always, nature had found a way to breathe. Each time it inhaled, sucking away all the air, the empty spaces around the trees and rocks and hedges filled up with the chirping of cicadas and of birds. Their songs glanced off the leaves like sunlight, sparkling only to fade and tantalise these boys who wished to kill them.
Just then, the oldest boy stopped by a lone pear tree.
Of course, the others stopped with him, breathlessly shielding their eyes from the sun as they peered into the thicket of trees just ahead. First, they watched a bright yellow butterfly making its escape, tracing wide arcs in the air with its shivering wings, veering recklessly, a shivering blur of gold in the darkening green gloom until even this was lost to view. The silence in the grove grew deeper still. Deeper than a thousand butterflies, lying wing to wing. And then, somehow, the birds contrived to fill that silence. Just one or two at first, until suddenly, resoundingly, they were singing all at once. Their song seemed to drip from the leaves themselves, stretching out from branch to branch, stirring like huge nested shadows, wrapping themselves around the trees and sprouting up between the rocks like grass. For the eldest boy, there was no more time to waste; after a quick glance back at his friends, he assumed a swaggering pose. ‘Bismillah!’ he cried, and let fly the first stone. He hit his target, sending it flailing to the ground. Running over to retrieve his prey, he promptly cracked its neck. For a moment he went pale. The bird’s warmth must have mixed with his own somehow, found some way to his heart, touching whatever tenderness he had left in him. Or perhaps it was the bird’s last song that had responded to his touch; perhaps it was this song that made the boy shudder. It seemed, almost, that he was going into shock, but then, most abruptly, the boy pulled himself up. Taking the bird by its wing, he held it up for all to see. With a nasty, pompous smirk, he tossed it high into the air.
The other boys stood there stunned and wide-eyed with envy. Then they melted into the bushes. Like tense little shadows, they advanced towards the clump of trees. The freckled boy who had lunged at Ali the Snowman’s table put his hand on Ziya’s shoulder, forcing him along. They stumbled on, catapults in hand, pushing their way past branches of fragrant blossoms and sun-dappled leaves, and on into the dark shadows. All around him, he could hear trampling feet. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see they were all going forward, but he could not feel his legs move or his feet touch the ground. Something was pulling the other footsteps off course. He thought it might be the ropes of couch grass, or the red earth, or the fresh shoots struggling through the undergrowth to be crushed underfoot. Soon all that remained were the stones, piercing leaves as they shot through the air, and the birds thrashing about at his feet. He leaned against a tree trunk to catch his breath. He looked away, far away. If only he could slip off into those distant hills . . .
But he could not. And now Ziya found himself looking at a small bird. Perched on a thin and almost leafless branch, it was, despite the commotion surrounding it, sitting perfectly still. It might have been a statue, a feathered statue, sculpted from silence and long forgotten: it was so still, in fact, that it paid no heed to the approaching footsteps. And that was why Ziya could not move either. Serenity had turned this bird to stone. Now he, too, was anch
ored to the earth. No question any more of moving. In awed and breathless silence, Ziya stared at the bird as the grass curled around his heels. What he saw that day, and all he saw that day, was the thing this bird alone possessed. The promise of serenity. This was what struck his eyes, and stopped him in his tracks for that brief interlude, what pierced his heart. It would be forty-two years before he saw another living creature in such coy and naked contemplation, and when he did, it would force him back through the tangled web that was his memory and plant him on this patch of grass that had long since turned to dust, to stare unmoving at this bird once more. Or rather, it would take him more than forty years to understand what he saw in this bird’s eyes. At the time, of course, Ziya knew none of this. Truth be told, he had not the faintest idea what that day had set in motion. Only that this bird brought him peace. At the same time, he feared that one of the other boys might come creeping through the trees with his catapult mercilessly lifted. There was the need to keep watch. But each time he made to peer around the tree trunks, the earth itself seemed to ripple, and the undergrowth too. The light breeze carrying its scent was swaying as well, in actual fact. Swaying with the noise that rose and fell, heavy with its dark green silences, its uncharted distances and empty spaces. This was all very much in motion when a burly boy in a white shirt appeared from behind a tree trunk. He seemed to know about the bird already, and he made a beeline for Ziya.
Alarmed to see this boy loping towards him, Ziya glanced back at the bird. No sooner had he done so than he glanced away again, to see how much closer the boy had come. But there was no one there: just a mass of pointed branches and a rustling of leaves that served only to deepen the silence. Beneath the browns and greens of those rustling leaves, there was a canopy of daisies, a quivering of shadows, a hint of old, soiled lace. Just then – just there – another boy appeared. He raised his head, prepared for the kill. Broke into a run. Yelling as he went. He was thin as a whip, this boy, and fast on his feet. As fast, in fact, as the strange breeze he brought with him. The sun filtered through the leaves above, sending a river of sun drops flowing golden down his face and shoulders.
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