‘Heads? What heads?’ said Ziya.
‘You know, those two smugglers they killed. Didn’t you hear this?’
Ziya gaped at him.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Resul. ‘Here on the border, whenever they kill any smugglers, that’s what they call it. Taking heads. And whenever they take any heads, a few commanders will get together to celebrate with a bit of rakı. I’m not sure if it’s a tradition, but it’s what they do every time. And it’s the commander who can claim the head who hosts the party, of course. When they got together to celebrate the two heads from Seyrantepe, Capflyer came, too.’
‘Did they really celebrate that here?’ Ziya asked.
‘Why are you so surprised?’ Resul asked. ‘The man claimed two heads, so of course he would.’
Ziya’s head began to spin. There was a roar in his ears as he looked at Resul as if seeing him for the first time.
‘The drink’s gone to your head, I think,’ said Resul. ‘I can see it on your face.’
Ziya looked down and swallowed.
‘Give me some more of this poison,’ he said, pushing his glass across the table. ‘For God’s sake, give me more!’
Resul filled the glass.
‘Capflyer came that night, too,’ he said, picking up where he’d left off. ‘They’d set up a table right over there, under the flagpole. The soldiers had all gone out to their stations, of course. The only other ones here were Yusuf the cook, and the night watchman, and me. I knew what was going to happen, so I made myself scarce. Yusuf the cook was waiting on the table, so no such luck for him, of course. The poor man spent the night shuttling back and forth between the flagpole and the kitchen. And that was why he was doomed to capture our friend Capflyer’s attention, after he’d knocked down enough drinks to relax. His head swimming with rakı, he took his gun out of his holster, and said, Come over here and stand in front of me, and then he ordered him to raise his visor. Yusuf had no choice but to do as he was told. He backed up until he was a good distance away, but Capflyer wasn’t able to fire. What I mean is, he kept raising his gun and closing one eye as if he was going to fire, but he never followed through. Sometimes he even sucked in his breath, and when he was ready to pull the trigger, he cried out, “Bammm!” And there was Yusuf standing there, dying and coming back to life again, dying and coming back to life, and in the end he shat himself. The men at the table slapped each other on the backs and fell about laughing, just to see him like that. So that’s what kind of man he is, this Capflyer. It’s always the same joke, and one day, I fear, he’ll take aim to send someone’s cap flying, and shoot some poor bugger in the temple. You have to be on guard at all times, if you ask me. You downed that second glass pretty fast, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ said Ziya, in a little yellow voice that stank of cologne.
After which Ziya got up without saying goodbye and when he reached the corridor, he took the internal stairs up to the top of the building. There was no one left by the well at the back of the mud-brick houses; there was only the shadow of the well’s wooden crank, and it was as smooth as a new puddle. After Ziya had stared for a long time at that shadow and the houses’ darkened doors, he went to the edge of the roof and gently sat himself down on the nobbled black concrete. And then for a time he thought about Hayati of Acıpayam, killed in that skirmish at Seyrantepe Station. And he even thought of the two men in black shalwar trousers, lying near his friend’s lifeless body, on the other side of the barbed-wire fence, surrounded by empty shells, and suddenly he could not hold himself back any longer. He began to cry. Then Resul came over and took him by the arm and led him to his office downstairs. He asked him why he was crying, but Ziya had no time to give an answer. Because just then, the jeep that had gone shooting off to Ceylanpınar came limping back. The commander went hurrying into the building, and as he opened his door, he called sternly out to Ziya, ordering him to come at once.
Wiping away his tears, Ziya hurried down.
When he had entered the room and saluted, he saw that the commander was seated at the front desk, looking at the pile of letters before him. He looked as if he was struggling to hold in some sort of anger or grievance, something he had clung to, long after he should have let it die away. There was a hardness in his face. Something was eating him. Then he picked up one of the letters and swung it back and forth. ‘Who’s this Midhat Çınar?’ he asked Ziya.
‘Ali Çınar’s son, sir,’ Ziya replied.
‘Ali the Snowman’s son?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Screwing up his face, he threw the letter across the desk as if it were dirtying his fingers. And then he said, ‘Take it.’ In a mocking voice, he added, ‘This Midhat Efendi has written you a letter.’
Ziya went over to the desk and picked up the letter.
‘Give these other letters to the driver,’ said the commander, pushing them across the desk with the back of his hand. ‘Tell him to deliver them to the appropriate stations.’
Ziya picked up those letters.
The commander frowned at him sternly.
‘Why do you stink of cologne?’ he asked.
‘I have a toothache, sir,’ Ziya replied. ‘I’ve dipped it in cologne to kill the pain.’
‘That’s enough!’ said the commander, jumping to his feet as if to strike him. ‘Get out!’
Shocked by the reprimand, Ziya got out and went back to his office and, wanting to know what had made the commander so angry, he at once opened his letter. Or rather, he reached into the envelope that had already been opened and pulled out the letter, which had been folded twice. What he saw first was the photograph in the fold. It had been cut from a newspaper, and it was a picture of Midhat from the waist up, arms crossed and smiling happily. Next to his picture was an advertisement for a film called Hope, and it showed Yılmaz Güney in the role of Cabbar the Carriage Driver, staring into the lens with his family; his hands were on his eldest son’s naked shoulders, and he standing there, straight as a rod, frowning stonily at Ziya from underneath his bushy eyebrows, with a face so angry and mournful that it made a nonsense of Midhat’s smile. Then Ziya looked at the little black-eared dog who seemed to be the eighth member of the family, sitting there on the lap of his youngest son. In the first lines of the letter, Midhat confirmed that the revolutionary struggle continued, and that he had finally secured permission to open a community centre, which he’d filled with books, and a week earlier they had brought a copy of the film Hope in from Aydın and shown it for free for three nights running. He went on to detail what he called his other revolutionary acts: setting up a reading group, setting up a drama club, writing ‘Long Live Socialism’ on the face of the fountain at the entrance to the town. He went on and on, recklessly piling on the detail, as if he did not know that all soldiers’ letters were censored. In the last lines of the letter, he told Ziya how much he was looking forward to seeing him again when he got out, to which he added a string of slogans in huge letters, followed by two and sometimes three exclamation marks, each one bolder than the last.
By the time he finished the letter, Ziya was beside himself. ‘Midhat, you dolt,’ he thought. ‘How could anyone be so naïve?’ He stood up and left the office, heading to the canteen for more of Resul’s brew. But it was almost as if the commander knew where he was going, for now he called him into his office.
‘Go to the depot and get yourself a rifle,’ he said, without looking him in the face. ‘From now on, you are coming out with me on night patrol!’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Ziya.
And so it was that, so many months later, he was armed once again, and issued with a cartridge belt, and every night he set out in the passenger seat of that jeep, like Capflyer’s clerk, to patrol the impenetrable darkness. Hours after the soldiers had gone to their stations, they would leave company headquarters, and all night long they would drive up and down the road that stretched along the barbed-wire fence, trembling like a strip of gauze. As they passed, the gu
ards would scramble to their feet, their rifles slung over their shoulders, and salute. If there was anyone asleep inside, or smoking a cigarette, or if anyone had gone over to talk to his friends in a neighbouring trench, the commander would jump down from his jeep and beat him to a pulp. Sometimes the commander and the guard would be swallowed by the night but the air still rang with kicks and punches. When the scuffle ended, the commander would always appear in exactly the same place as he had vanished. Breathing heavily through his nose, he’d get back into the jeep, stretching out in the back seat and looking disgusted, and then he would turn to the driver, Ahmet of Polatlı, and bellow, ‘Start driving, you animal! What are you staring at?’ And Ahmet of Polatlı would start driving, his face darkened with anger, but saying nothing, and off they would go again, down the road. And if there was a skirmish at any point along the section of the border for which they were responsible, or an exchange of gunfire, or a tracer flying through the sky, they would head straight out to assist those guards, of course. Taking shelter behind the jeep, they would join in the shooting and stay at that post until morning.
Some nights they would sweep the darkness with their searchlights, looking for any smugglers who might have penetrated deep into Turkish territory or any others who might be approaching the border, and sometimes they would turn off all the lights and sit there in the pitch dark, as if lying in ambush. Why they had stopped in that particular place and not elsewhere, and how long they would stay – these were things that only the commander knew, of course. And he never told Ahmet of Polatlı or Ziya. Sometimes he would issue an abrupt command to move forward without putting on the lights, and the jeep would crawl blindly through the night, crackling the dry grass beneath its wheels as it moved towards the next guardhouse. When they were within shooting range, the lights would flash on, as the jeep gathered speed, until pulling up sharply at the guardhouse gate. If the guard on duty was asleep or sitting in front of the phone, chatting with some other guard, it would all end very badly; the commander would beat him until he turned to jelly. Sometimes he’d put the gun to the guard’s temple, his eyes flashing in the night like some madman, and bellowing, ‘I could blow out your brains, you dog and son of a dog, nothing would make me happier, I swear, I could blow your brains out!’
Because Ziya was still responsible for all the work in the office, he was only able to sleep for a few hours after returning from patrol. And like so many of the guards, he was now suffering from rheumatism, and so he did what they all had to do: to reduce the pain he had to make himself sweat, so he wrapped his knees with plastic bags and tied them tightly with string. After just a few hours, he would jump out of bed and quickly get dressed. Without stopping for breakfast, he would rush to the canteen. If Resul was alone in there, he’d say, ‘Pour me a glass of that poison,’ and it was only after downing a few glasses that he was able to calm down.
Sometimes Kenan would join them, slipping into a corner to drink that liquid they called poison, looked very ashamed of himself as he pretended to be drinking tea. With each sip, he’d look out the window at the mud-brick houses and a moment arrived when he could no longer keep himself from talking about the beauties of his own village. And so it was that the Telhamut canteen was cooled by that faraway red-pine forest and its fragrant flowers. And then came the bubbling of the pure waters running down its slender brooks, and the tranquil hills, with their oak trees and their juniper bushes, and the clacking grouse in the ash-coloured undergrowth, and the sheep pens, and the footpaths carpeted with yellow leaves, and the steep cliffs that were red in some lights and grey in others, and the bugs that glistened in the sun amongst those yellowed-headed, pink-headed, purple-headed thorns. And after these would come the vineyards, and the fruit trees, the gorgeous fruit trees, and their perfume, whirling through the air like soap bubbles. And in their wake, the blue skies, each one deeper than the one before, and the grassy slopes, glistening as if they’d just been washed, and those silences, always changing colour. It was Kenan’s face, and the rise and fall of his voice, that lit up each one, if only for an instant. But then that light would go out, and Kenan would go limp, and before their eyes he would turn into a dark and trembling slip of a ghost. After rubbing his knees and giving himself a good scratch and gazing blankly at the empty shelves, this ghost would leave the canteen in silence. And Ziya would head for the office and the typewriter, to prepare more reports on the latest skirmishes.
The company commander would sometimes park himself at the far end of the outpost and watch him from there. He seemed to take pleasure in seeing that the night patrols and the long days at the typewriter were wearing Ziya down, and his eyes sparkled with malice in which Ziya could see the stars on his shoulder reflected. But it must not have been enough, because one day he brought a truckload of pine saplings to the company headquarters. Some were no thicker than two fingers, others no longer than sweet marjoram, and then Ziya had to plant them one pace apart from each other, all along the base of the barbed-wire fence, around the company headquarters and the guard station, and along both sides of the dirt road at the back, while the commander looked on, smiling nastily. The moment he was finished planting, the commander beckoned to him from the window, and when he reached the office, the commander said, ‘You’ll be responsible for watering those saplings. I don’t want to see any dry soil around their bases!’ And as he said this, he didn’t look up once.
‘Yes, sir,’ Ziya said, struggling to mask his confusion.
‘And don’t let me see anyone else doing the watering. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ziya once again.
The commander let a soft smile form beneath his moustache as he shook his head.
And so, as if all the work he already did was not enough, Ziya was now rushing out to the water pump next to the flagpole every other minute to water the saplings. In the beginning a number of others, and most especially Kenan and Resul, took pity on him and offered to help, but Ziya stopped them every time. When they were all gathered together, he even begged them. ‘Friends,’ he’d say. ‘The commander doesn’t want anyone but me tending to the saplings, so please, please don’t water them without my knowing.’ And after that, they never picked up another watering can, of course; they just watched from a distance as Ziya dragged his feet, wearily carting his watering can from tree to tree. After a few days of this, Ziya’s hands were full of water, too: both palms were covered with little blisters.
The blisters had not even healed yet when the commander made a new decision: one evening he strolled in with his parka draped over his shoulders and, stopping in the doorway, his face went sour under the yellow light. ‘From this night on,’ he told Ziya, ‘you are going out on night patrol in my place.’ At which he turned on his heels and headed for the mud-brick houses beyond the barbed-wire fence, and as he looked at them, it seemed to Ziya that each had receded to its own hiding place under cover of darkness. Watching him go, Ziya thought he must be off to empty out the houses and line everyone up next to the well and do a roll-call. But that is not what happened: instead the commander walked softly, very softly, until he disappeared into one of the houses. From that day on, he was forever draping his parka over his shoulders and heading over to that house. He took great care with his appearance after that first time, even; before setting out, he would give himself a close shave, and shine his boots, and put brilliantine on his hair. But the most striking thing about the man crossing through the barbed-wire fence was that he’d become a new man, as soft as the scent of a linden tree. What no one could understand, of course, was how he could go through any of those doors wearing any face at all, after venting his rage on those people, and tying them to flagpoles to beat them up, and lining them up, young and old, next to the well, and peppering them with curses while he did the roll-call. Least of all Resul, who fretted about it for many long days. His theory was that they struggled to make ends meet with the pittance the state paid them, and so opened their doors to the commander out of fear.
And when they had opened the door to invite him in, and sat him down on the sofa, and put a few cushions behind his back to make him more comfortable, and offered him a coffee, even – well, they felt obliged to smile, of course, so as not to be rude to their guest, and there was no doubt about it, this was the worst of the man’s tyrannies. For there could be no tyranny on this earth that was worse than making those you had tyrannised smile at you. Those poor people, after smiling like that for a few hours, the whole family would probably feel as tired as if they’d spent the whole day lifting rocks. On the other hand, since this commander could not or would not establish any sort of friendly relations with his men, it followed that he suffered from the isolation that power brings with it, and also he was probably thinking all the time about the home he’d lost, and so here he was, in this godforsaken place, pining away like a kitten in the rain, and longing for a warm hearth. And so even if those people opened their doors out of fear, and smiled at him out of fear, this powerful wretch of a man was going over there for no other reason than to enjoy the warmth of home. And this meant that he, too, was hiding behind false gestures, and if he made those false gestures as if he believed them, then in one sense, he was also tyrannising himself. In other words, it was a heart-wrenching scenario, whichever way you looked at it.
‘That’s what’s happening, don’t you think?’ asked Resul after saying all this.
‘How am I supposed to know?’ Ziya would reply. ‘What do I care about the commander? If he wants to go over and piss on them, then let him do it.’
He’d drink the last of his poison and, head spinning, climb into the jeep, which had so many bullet holes that it would soon become a sieve, and off he would go on his night patrol, with Ahmet of Polatlı behind the wheel. They would follow the same routine as if the commander had been sitting there next to him, driving up and down their section of the border, searchlights sweeping the night to the left and to the right, and never speaking. Whenever they passed, the guards would come out of their stations and stand on the side of the road, their rifles slung over their shoulders, and when they saluted they looked like shadows looming in the night. If he caught sight of Veysel Hoca, who was back from medical leave, or Hayrullah of Adana, or Serdar of Çorlu, or Osman of Selçuk, Ziya would tell Ahmet to slam on the brakes, and they would quickly exchange news. And after the jeep continued on its way, Osman of Selçuk would shake his fist at the dark, yelling, ‘Fuck off, you fucking village, fuck off!’
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