‘Dear, dear, dear,’ sighed Nurgül Hanım. ‘What a terrible shame to lose all those children.’
Crouching down and leaning back against the wall, Ebecik the Midwife looked out over the rooftops. She stared at the sky, going deeper and deeper still, into the past she seemed to see there.
When she spoke again, she was almost delirious. ‘Those poor children,’ she said. ‘It was the hour of their death. We are every one of us mere mortals. Whatever shall be, shall be, my beauty. Such is the will of God . . . But there’s something I forgot to mention just now. Those horsemen of ours who went to see the village did not themselves witness any of this. They heard the story from the villagers, same as I just told you. What I mean to say is that all our men did was sit down with their hands on their knees and their heads bowed and listen to the story. And then, without suffering the slightest injury, they offered their condolences to those poor ravaged villagers and galloped on home. Having gawped at the scene of the disaster, there was nothing more these men could do, and I know whereof I speak. Maybe you won’t believe me, but these men we’re talking about were the very laziest men in our town. You know the type. I’m talking about the sort of men you’ll see lounging against the wall, or the porch steps, or the door, like a pile of old clothes – lazy isn’t a good enough word for them. Hard to believe, but they were all like this, every last one of them. So lazy they didn’t even bother to greet you when you passed them, and no one had the faintest idea how they fed themselves, or who looked after them. The only thing they knew how to do, these men, was to sit there sleeping in the sun, shoot withering looks and snore. How they managed to spring to life the moment they heard about the disaster, how they found people to loan them horses at such short notice, how they shed all those lazy ways of theirs and got it into their minds to go all the way to that village – well I for one can’t tell you. All I know is this. After they returned from that village, these men began to change, little by little. They had a spring to their step now. There was life in their eyes. You could almost think that the things they’d seen in that village had put an end to their laziness – popped it, like a needle popping a balloon. Soon they were walking the length and width of the town, telling the story of the whirlwind to any child who crossed their path. But now their voices didn’t shake any more, like they’d done that first day. Now there were times when they spoke like a great river sparkling in the sun, or a breeze passing over a planted field. They would stop as suddenly as if they were teetering over a cliff. They would sigh tragically, but only to offer cause for hope. The story itself had changed by now. It was no longer the same whirlwind we’d heard about that first day. With each new detail, this story of theirs stretched just a bit more. The more it stretched, the more it changed in shape and appearance, until it had lost all its bearings. Soon it was riddled with logical errors and made no sense at all. You could almost say that they’d fiddled with it so much by then that it stopped being a story. By now it had as many holes in it as an old lace rag. Would you believe it – these men kept on with it regardless. They threw themselves into it, heart and soul. They gave this story of theirs everything they had. From the way they now set themselves up as the experts on whirlwinds, you’d think they had spent their whole lives with their elbows propped on a school desk. They put on such airs that soon it became their job to stand by the haystacks brandishing pitchforks, predicting when a wind might rise, and where it might come from, and how strong it might be. And there they stood, pricking their ears, and suddenly going silent, to listen even more deeply; with bated breath they’d sniff the air, to see if it told them of a whirlwind on the way. If ever the wind seemed to be going around in circles, or even if it so much as lifted up a few papers and leaves, their lips would curl and they’d hem and they’d haw and exchange knowing looks. Then they would insist that there was a whirlwind out there, somewhere far away, and that it had caused great damage, and that this little wind that was raising up a few leaves and papers had somehow broken off from it to come as far as here. Before long they had convinced themselves that however you looked at it, this little wind was the harbinger of the great whirlwind that would strike some unknown place at an unknown point in the future. So, whenever they gathered together, they’d rejoice as if they’d made a great scientific discovery and at the same time lament the great damage that whirlwind would cause. There was even a day when one of these men burst into tears while watching a cloud of dust sail towards us. Dear God, he said, it’s the whirlwind. It’s the whirlwind. Dear God! I saw this with my own two eyes. I swear, he went pale as pale, and the tears he shed were as big as acorns. It wasn’t long before he realised he had cried for nothing. That cloud of dust on the horizon came as far as the edge of town and stopped beneath a massive plane tree. Out popped a postman on his yellow motorcycle. In the end, these men embroidered their story so much they killed it. Never mind, they’ve all gone to their graves now, and it wouldn’t be right to dwell on them too long. It’s not right to speak ill of the dead, as you well know. The silence of the dead is deeper and greater than anything we say on earth. The dead are judged, to be sure. So let us leave these men be. They’re dead and buried, with their sins and their good deeds . . . As you can see, the little girl who stood in that crowd waiting for the horsemen to return is now a humpbacked, white-haired woman. And do you know, while I was waiting in that crowd for two long days all those years ago, I got so very hungry, and when I told someone in that crowd, I no longer remember who, that person gave me some meat wrapped in bread. I say meat wrapped in bread and that reminds me, what have you made for supper tonight, my beauty? Have you already made it?’
‘I have,’ said Nurgül Hanım. ‘If you want the truth, a few hours ago I had no idea what to make. I kept changing my mind, but then I decided to make stewed haricot beans. With pilaf, pickles and semolina pudding.’
‘That sounds good,’ said Ebecik the Midwife, fiddling with her prayer beads, ‘very good indeed, but I’m surprised, because you can’t make stewed haricot beans just like that, you know, you have to decide the day before. You don’t need to do much: you just bring it to a boil and let it sit in its own water. The next day you need to throw that water away, most definitely. There’s nothing on this earth that does more harm. It gives you gas, it darkens the beans, and it keeps us from enjoying the sight of those beans sparkling. As God is my witness, what you need to do is to wash those beans after getting rid of that water, and then cover them with water – three fingers above the beans – and then cook them over a low flame, but at this point you must pay close attention to the rhythm of the boil. As you know, every dish has its own rhythm when it boils. So, for instance, when you’re cooking bulgur, it sounds like this: lady’s thigh bone, lady’s thigh bone, lady’s thigh bone. But when you’re cooking dolmas, or pilaf wrapped in grape leaves, it should sound like this: beggar’s dick, beggar’s dick, beggar’s dick. If you don’t keep adjusting the flame, you might produce different sounds altogether, and no good can come from that. So you need to pay close attention to those haricot beans when you’re boiling them. They should just bubble as softly as whispers, never more than that, and that way they won’t go to pieces. They’ll just lie there, playing dead. They won’t stick to each other, they’ll just lie there, each one sparkling like these beads of mine, each one saying, “Here I am!” After all this, of course, you need to cook your finely chopped onions with green peppers in oil, and tomato purée, and pepper purée, too. None of this putting green peppers to swim about the sauce like the sultan’s caïques. You should chop them so that they are no more than twice the length of the beans. At the end of the day, this is a dish that requires a great deal of care. For example, it’s a good idea to throw in two or three cloves of garlic; it brings a certain extra something to the palate. In any event, someone somewhere might be longing for this dish made just this way, so in my view, it’s best to leave it there.’
Nurgül Hanım smiled softly.
‘When we talk ab
out food, we should do a good job of it,’ said Ebecik the Midwife. ‘People don’t take food seriously, but they should. Never skimp on the food you make for your husband, my beauty. Winter or summer, he’s in that classroom with those screaming children from dawn till dusk. And well, you know what they say, the road to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You might think that’s just a turn of phrase, but whatever you do, don’t forget it. Because it really is true. It takes me back to the days of the sultans and beys and aghas. As you know, they would bestow upon their grand viziers and generals and chamberlains their own shirts and coats and jackets and boots. This was not just to make them happy, and it wasn’t just to show them their worth; it was so as to become part of them. Because when their men wore these gifts, they would, without even knowing it, start thinking like their masters. And it’s more or less the same with food, my beauty. Your husband is not just eating your food – he is taking in the heat that has dropped into the pot from your eyes and your hands. Even if he doesn’t come to share your thoughts, he’ll come closer to your way of feeling as he eats. Whatever you say, he’ll warm to it. He’ll look on it kindly. And that’s important, how warm his looks are, and his hands. Do what you will, but mark my words. Whatever happens, it is through food that we pass on this warmth. Don’t you think that it ends there, either: even if you don’t kiss him goodbye at the door each morning, make sure you touch his shoulder, because no matter what, his mind will be going back to it all day. And in his mind, it will become warmer than it actually was. Then, before long, he’ll long to return to it. Because wherever we happen to be, we mortals move towards warmth. But never mind. I’ve talked myself to a standstill. I’d best be on my way.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Nurgül Hanım warmly. ‘Look, we’ve talked so much about your haricot beans. Why not eat with us this evening?’
Ebecik the Midwife lifted herself up and, leaning against the courtyard wall, looked out at the smoke rising from behind the mud-brick houses at the far end of the street.
‘That’s very kind, my girl. Very kind indeed,’ she said. ‘But I’m off to my son’s house tonight. We’ve planned a gathering, and my youngest daughter is going to join us. They’ll be there already, with their eyes on the door. They’re probably wondering where I am. The best of health to you!’
‘And the best of luck to you,’ murmured Nurgül Hanım.
Then she turned her head towards the street. After giving it a good, long look, she turned away suddenly and rushed back into the house.
Ziya was in his room, still asleep, as before.
‘Time to wake up,’ she said. ‘Your father will be home any minute. And what’s all this anyway? Sleeping in the middle of the day!’
Ziya stirred slightly.
‘Don’t just lie there. Time to get up!’ said Nurgül Hanım in a reproachful voice. ‘Your mother almost got carried off by a whirlwind and you slept through the whole thing!’
Slowly, Ziya raised his head. He was still half asleep. He couldn’t understand what his mother was saying.
‘Who was taking who?’ he asked. ‘Where?’
‘The whirlwind,’ said his mother. ‘The whirlwind, I said. The whirlwind!’
Ziya said nothing. Sitting up, he slowly pushed his blanket to one side, and at just that moment, amongst the yellow flowers, just where he’d seen that stain that resembled a bird, he found a feather. First he just looked at it, not knowing what to do. Then he slapped his hand over it, and then he gave his mother a sidelong look, to see if she’d noticed. Nurgül Hanım had gone to the window to watch the sun falling on the leaves of the begonias; she’d seen nothing. Ziya relaxed, just a little. But at the same time, he was wondering if that stain had actually been a bird, and if that bird had left behind a feather. When his mother left the room he put the feather straight into his pocket, and went out to sit at the table in the sitting room, quiet as a shadow.
That’s where his father found him when he came in.
‘What’s up, boy?’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ziya.
No sooner had he said this than he felt something warming up his pocket. It felt like the feather he’d hidden there was in flame, was on fire. This fire continued burning while they ate. At times it was a medium flame. At times it slackened, only to flare up again as high as Ziya’s cheeks.
‘Something’s happened to you,’ said his father, as they moved on to the semolina pudding. ‘There’s something not right about the way you’re sitting.’
‘Honestly, nothing happened,’ Ziya replied.
And after that, to change the subject, he turned to his mother and asked, ‘Were you talking to Ebecik the Midwife? While I was sleeping, I thought I heard her voice. She went on and on. Muttering and muttering.’
‘We had a quick chat at the door,’ his mother answered. ‘But what I can’t understand is how you could have heard her from so far away, especially since you were asleep.’
‘It could have pierced his sleep,’ said his father. ‘As you know, not all sleep is the same. It has different phases. It’s shallow and then it’s deep, it curves and goes down tunnels and staircases and wells. Sometimes it’s so thick as to carry you off this earth, sometimes it holds you underneath a veil as thin as muslin. When sleep’s that thin, some things can pierce it. A sharp-edged memory, for example. Or sharp words that are still bothering us, or a thought that’s settled outside our minds, in our limbs, or a feeling that’s done the same, or something in our midst that we haven’t even noticed – things like these can pierce our sleep. And then, you see, you can’t see where it pierces on the inside, but you can on the outside. Of course it doesn’t look the same from there as it does in reality: the mist of sleep makes it look a little closer, or a little further away. That’s probably what happened. Ebecik’s voice came in through a hole like that.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ziya muttered in a gloomy voice, almost to himself. ‘I heard everything they said, anyway. Even her words of wisdom.’
‘She’s fond of those,’ said his father, nodding. ‘And after all, a long life opens the pores of the mind.’
Ziya said nothing.
‘You’re making me talk too much,’ said his father. ‘For a moment, I felt I was still back in class, teaching.’ With that he rose from the table. Stroking his stomach, he strode away to settle into the chair in front of the television.
That evening Ziya could not keep still. He wandered around huffing and puffing like a lunatic. Back in his room, he took the feather out of his pocket and tossed it into the courtyard. It sank into the night, a pale and forlorn blur until it lost itself amongst the dark and rustling leaves of his mother’s begonias. When Ziya lay his head on his pillow and closed his eyes late that night, he lost himself in the same way, swaying his way down, down, down until the night came to bury him. And that is why, when he woke up in the morning, Ziya went straight to the window, to look outside with sleep-clouded eyes. He was sure the feather must be there somewhere, but all he could see was a white cat crawling out of the lilies at the foot of the wall to climb up to the roof, never once taking its burning eyes off Ziya. There was some noise just then in the neighbours’ courtyard. Looking over the brick wall, he saw a few men carrying blue wooden chairs on their shoulders, a few women bending over, rising and bending over again, and a heavy-set young man going up to the roof to sit next to the chimney and watch the road while he basked in the sun.
‘The wedding’s about to begin,’ said Nurgül Hanım, when she saw Ziya at his window. ‘Since yesterday this house has been too small for you. So let’s get you breakfast and then you can go outside and watch.’
‘All right,’ said Ziya.
After breakfast he went outside, with the bird still in his mind.
By then, the neighbours had raised a flagpole from their chimney; just underneath they had put a large pine branch, which they had decorated with red ribbons, and strings of sweets, and popcorn, and balloons of all colours. Han
ds on hips, head thrown back, Hacı Veli was looking up happily at the embroidered flag. Then lethargy came over him. He pulled himself together and hurried over to the cooking pots in the corner of the courtyard, stopping next to the women busy chopping meat on boards. ‘Do you have enough meat?’ he asked. ‘Should I kill another goat?’
‘It would be a waste, master,’ one of the women replied. She tilted her head to one side, almost in deference for the goat that might be killed. ‘Soon the girl will be coming with Reşat’s gold on her forehead, bringing a ram from her household. We can’t forget that.’
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