The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  His acquaintance with Zeynel dated back quite some time. About a year after arriving in Menekşe, Zeynel had been sent to sell fish at the Fish Market in Istanbul and, as he was waiting for the train home at Sirkeci station, he met Hüseyin Huri, then still in his shining sports outfit. After that, Zeynel went back to Sirkeci every month or so and there he got to know Hüseyin Huri’s gang of street arabs, though at first he did not take part in any of their exploits. Boys came and went, but Hüseyin Huri was always there, guiding the newcomers from Anatolia or the poorer quarters of Istanbul in the art of pickpocketing, gambling, black-marketing and all kinds of petty pilfering. He was on the best of terms with the police. Only recently he had killed one-armed Salman, the cigarette black-marketeer, and thrown his body on to the railway tracks in full view of any number of witnesses, but he was not even apprehended by the police, nor was he disturbed in the scraps and gambling games he organized under the walls of the railway station facing the Bosphorus.

  Zeynel was growing impatient. There was still no sign of Hüseyin Huri. He walked over to the entrance of the station and looked towards the landing-stage of the city-line ferries, then left, to the rise that led to Cağaloglu. Some boys were selling black-market cigarettes in front of the station gates with shrill shouts … Marlboro, Kent, Dunhill … Zeynel began to stride up and down again with stiff firm steps. I am like my name, he thought, Çelik … Iron … Zeynel had chosen this family name for himself because he said he had forgotten his own name, and perhaps he had, perhaps he had never even known it. He liked his new name. Çelik. Iron. A man of iron, hard, inflexible … Not like Zeynel …

  Zeynel, who a few months after his arrival in Menekşe had been eager to do odd jobs for all and sundry … Washing down the rowing-boats drawn up on the banks of the Çekmece stream, keeping an eye on the nets spread out to dry on the little bridge, helping the old people, Ilya, Tartar Ali, Jano, to weave nets, unwinding the skeins, attaching the bobs and corks to the nets, tirelessly toting everyone’s fishing gear or extracting the fish from their meshes, lending a hand to Japanese Ahmet who repaired and painted the boats … With time Zeynel had grown proficient at a whole variety of jobs. He could weave nets, whitewash walls, repair taps and engines, he could do anything that came to mind, and if anyone were to offer him money he would hang his head bashfully. ‘It’s nothing,’ he would demur, ‘don’t mention it …’ And the readier he was, the more people took advantage of this silent, timid lad. Many a time on snowy winter evenings was Zeynel woken up and dispatched to Çekmece just for a bottle of wine. Even the dope addicts, when in trouble, would have recourse to Zeynel and give him their hashish to hide. Zeynel never refused anyone. He would accept every job with a smile. When a fisherman badly needed a deckhand, Zeynel would be there, ready to go out to sea any time, and if given his share of fish he would take it as though ashamed, not knowing what to do with it. If one of the women fell ill, he would wash and cook for her and carry water from the village fountain to her house. In fact, he carried pails of water to every house in Menekşe. And for all his pains, people only disparaged and sneered at him.

  One person there was, though, for whom Zeynel refused to do anything, and that was Ihsan, the good friend and bodyguard of Meliha who ran that illegal brothel on the road between Menekşe and Çekmece. Ihsan was one of Istanbul’s notorious thugs, never without a pair of Nagants at his waist, ready to whip them out at the slightest provocation. It was common knowledge that he had killed four men and served years in prison for it, so people were careful to keep on the right side of him. Fishermen would offer him the pick of their catch and Ihsan would pay or not, as he pleased. He extorted a levy from every casino and house of ill fame all along the coast from Florya to Sinan village and spent the rest of his time gambling or swaggering up and down Menekşe, his jacket slung over his shoulder, spitting into the sea. A large man with a long yellow moustache and a double chin, he sported garish ties, a new one every day, and trousers of the most expensive cloth, cut wide at the leg and pressed sharp as a sword’s edge. In one incident in Menekşe, Ihsan had let fly at three men, leaving them lying in a pool of blood and maimed for life, and had somehow got away without even being charged. It was about a week later that the encounter with Zeynel had taken place. ‘Here boy,’ Ihsan had called to him, holding out a bundle of fish, ‘take these home for me.’ Zeynel did not move. He stood stock-still on the little bridge that led to the beach, his head held high, his eyes fixed in the distance. It was as though he never even heard Ihsan shouting at him. ‘Damn the boy,’ Ihsan said in the end. ‘He’s just a good-for-nothing idiot.’ And he handed the fish over to someone else who was only too glad to do the gangster’s bidding.

  Once in a while Zeynel would vanish for two, three months on end. No one knew where he went or what he did. Many a job on hand came to a standstill then. Boats to be repaired or painted, engines to be cleaned, tholes or oars to be made, stoves to be dismantled and put together again, all had to await his return.

  His brand-new blue jeans, very tight about the buttocks, making his small bottom seem even smaller, were wide at the legs and fell over his yellow shoes. He wore a red shirt with a bright blue tie, and a red handkerchief was thrust into the breast pocket of his navy-blue jacket. His yellow hair curled down to his collar and his reddish moustache hung thinly, as though only newly sprouting. He chewed it nervously as he watched the stream of people hurrying to the trains, the screaming street pedlars, the itinerant vendors of lahmacun, meatballs and ayran, the cars and taxis either massed in front of the station or struggling to pierce their way through into the street, all in a blare of sound of every pitch and tonality. Zeynel Çelik had come to know Istanbul quite well, but his most familiar haunts were around Menekşe and Sirkeci. These were like home to him. Yet, for the first time, it struck him how noisy Sirkeci was. The rumble of incoming and outgoing trains, the roar of the crowd, the ear-splitting honking of cars and hooting of ships’ sirens, the cries of hawkers and newsboys, the swearing and cursing … And all the dust and smoke that burnt the throat, the greasy fumes of meat and onions fried over coals, the ground strewn with paper, fish bones, orange peel and dirty rags, the urine at the foot of the walls in pools exuding an acrid ammonia smell and swarming with black flies, the spittle on the cracked, uneven pavements, the man-deep holes left yawning all the year round with the earth piled beside them … How was it that he had never seen all this so clearly before? And the Konyali Restaurant across the street from which emanated the spicy odour of döner kebap and other heavenly foods … Not once had Zeynel ever set foot there. God willing, he would do so just once, before being thrown into prison …

  At last he caught sight of Hüseyin Huri entering the station building. Hüseyin Huri spotted Zeynel at once and ran up to greet him.

  ‘I’ve killed a man,’ Zeynel announced, pointing to the gun at his waist.

  ‘What! Who?’

  Zeynel hung his head. ‘Ihsan,’ he said humbly.

  ‘Not Meliha’s Ihsan?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Zeynel said with a deprecating shrug.

  ‘Well, good for you!’ Hüseyin Huri exclaimed. ‘If you kill, it should be someone like Ihsan so as to make a splash in the world … Did he scream a lot?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Zeynel thought it over. ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘Mine raised the roof, the son-of-a-bitch, as he was pegging out. He bellowed like an ox when I plunged the knife into him.’

  ‘God knows, Ihsan didn’t scream so much. Perhaps not at all …’ Zeynel was trying to recall how it had been.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Hüseyin Huri asked. ‘Will you give yourself up?’

  ‘Never! I’ve still got things to do.’

  ‘Then, let’s get out of here. Somebody might recognize you.’

  ‘You go. I’ll join you in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Don’t be later than midnight,’ Hüseyin Huri said, ‘or I’ll start worrying.’

  Zeynel stood looking afte
r him as he walked away past the ancient, crumbling edifice on the shore and disappeared beyond the point of the Old Seraglio. Then, with trembling legs, he crossed the street and entered the Konyali Restaurant. He was no sooner inside than he repented his temerity, but the head waiter was already at his side, ushering him to a table. Zeynel went hot and cold and the only thing he remembered afterwards was the menu being handed to him by an elderly waiter. How had he ordered the food, how had he plied his knife and fork, or had he eaten with a spoon, was there bread on the table, how had he paid, had he tipped the waiter, or had he not paid at all? He found himself outside at the ferryboat landing, bathed in sweat.

  Slowly recovering, he spat three times into the water and his legs took him to the antiquated Sansaryan Han that housed the Istanbul Security Department. Two policemen were on guard at the entrance of the ugly edifice, blackened by time and with its plaster flaking off in places. Zeynel’s hand was on his gun, which could be seen clearly under his unbuttoned jacket, as could the bullets that filled the pockets of his jeans. Without looking at the policemen, he strode over to the wide, timeworn stairs and rushed up to the top floor, bumping into people, then clattered down again at top speed. He burst in and out of rooms as though looking for something, his hand always on the glinting butt of his gun, never stopping, never answering a word when questioned, his face tense, terrible, his eyes huge with fright, unseeing … And in a trice, slipping out under the startled gaze of the crowds there, he was far away in front of the Valide Mosque in Eminönü.

  Pigeons rose and fell in black clouds over the courtyard of the mosque, pecking at the grain that the vendors, small boys or old people, kept scattering around. Street sellers with loudspeakers tied to their necks, hawkers of black-market goods, cigarettes, radios, television sets, cameras, had spread their wares under the arcade and between the cars parked along the east flank of the mosque, overflowing right across the street to the Iş Bank and rendering it well-nigh impossible for pedestrians to make their way through. On the side of the mosque facing the Spice Bazaar, a man was trying in vain to make a lethargic snake perform a dance so as to attract customers for a new brand of poor-quality razor blades. Further off, a conjuror, proud of his skills and casting an occasional mocking glance at the snake-charmer, was producing doves and rabbits out of a hat. He was selling engraved wooden mortars, old gramophones with loudspeakers, pocket watches, painted Konya spoons, chased Erzincan copperware and a whole array of very ancient Tokat bells of all shapes and sizes. Another wonder-worker, with flames starting from his mouth, was thrusting a long sword down into his stomach. He had stationed himself below the Eminönü footbridge where the traffic got jammed at all hours of the day, buses, cars, trucks, horsecarts, tankers, all in a tangle with the straggling throngs of pedestrians, and there he stood shouting out the merits of some old-fashioned cut-throat razors, trying to make himself heard above the din of motors, car-homs, boat sirens and yelling drivers, and such a piercing voice he had, the wonder-worker, that if he had called out from the top of that minaret there, hand held behind his ear like a muezzin, his voice would have carried right up to Taksim Square or even across the sea to Kadiköy and Moda. Beside the razors were a towel, a shaving brush and soap, and the wonder-worker kept praising his razors and belittling those newfangled coxcombs who used safety razors. Next he picked up as many as ten cut-throat razors and started passing them from one hand to the other, the naked blades sparkling in the air. And the taxi drivers looked on in admiration, while their fares were glad rather than restive at being stuck there.

  Zeynel was calmer now. He wandered about gazing at the street sellers and conjurors and drifted into the Flower Bazaar. There in a large cage was a rabbit with timorous red eyes, crouching in a corner. Something stirred in Zeynel. He thrust a finger through the bars and touched the rabbit’s pink nose. The rabbit never even moved.

  ‘It’s only in its first year,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘A fine specimen. You can use it for drawing lots. Rabbits bring luck, you know. And it’s cheap too, only a hundred and fifty lira. Look at its eyes … Like coral …’

  Zeynel stared at him, blanching. Suddenly he took to his heels and rushed away towards Galata Bridge. And as he ran he remembered that eagle of long ago. It was a huge coppery eagle with a wingspread of maybe three metres, a powerful beak, a head large as two fists, crooked talons and large streaked eyes, opened wide in a mad furious gaze. The eagle’s owner, a short man dressed in a conical Turcoman felt cap, a frazzled fox-fur coat and soft Circassian boots, carried on his back a large board pierced with dozens of holes into which were inserted slips of paper bearing fortunes which the eagle would draw out for customers. The board would be set up regularly on crowded market-days in Çekmece under the plane tree in front of the smithy. The little man would place his eagle upon it and, taking up the megaphone that hung from his neck, would start shouting.

  ‘Roll up, roll up, folks! Come and see the golden eagle that was captured on Mount Kaf. The golden eagle hatched by the Phoenix who lives on the mountain … Only one egg in a thousand years does the Phoenix lay, and from that egg this eagle …’

  At this precise moment the eagle would fling out its broad wings and flap them three times, and the large bells tied to its legs would jingle.

  ‘Yes, folks, indeed, here you see the offspring of the Phoenix! Ninety-two years old it is, and has travelled as far as Mecca and Medina and visited the shrine of our Holy Prophet. Eagles like this never fail to visit our Holy Prophet. It will be nine hundred and eight years before another such immortal eagle appears on this earth. So we are fortunate indeed, my friends, to have this one here …’

  The people jostling about the market-place would leave off their shopping and press up to look at this marvel which came into the world once in a thousand years.

  ‘Golden eagles born of the Phoenix circle the globe sixteen times as soon as they break out of their egg. And their eyries are on the snowy peaks of the Altai Mountains, and also on the snowy peaks of the Himalayas. The Phoenix never lays its egg anywhere but on Mount Kaf and for seven years it sits on this egg without stirring, neither to eat nor to drink. It is nourished by the Almighty. Such a bird is the Phoenix … In olden times, it was the Phoenix that crowned and girded kings and sultans, shahs and beys, Jenghiz Khan, Lame Timur, Süleyman the Magnificent … So now, do you understand who this eagle is?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we understand,’ the entranced onlookers would shout.

  ‘Well, this eagle, who has seen both Hell and Paradise, who still bears the odour of Paradise on its wings, can tell a man’s past and forecast his future. And by laying it in the palm of his hand too! Such a mirror it will hold up to you that in it you will see your whole life, past and to come. Here, on these slips of paper, everything about you is inscribed. Perhaps you will object, you will say that all this was written long ago, long before we existed …’

  At this point the eagle would lean down towards him, as though listening.

  ‘Look, my friends, look how this noble bird is giving ear to us! Yes, you are right, these things were written down long before you were born and taken to the Kaaba on the wings of this eagle, there to be immersed in the holy Zemzem water and brought back again … And of this you may be sure: it is this great holy eagle who wrote these things, after its manner, giving us news of those who are no more, bending its thoughts to the fate of all mankind … And in this time and age, people’s fate, their past and future are one. We are all alike, my friends, rich or poor … Eagles are alike too, and doves … So here, my friends, lies all our past and all our future. They say a man’s past and his future have three hundred and sixty-two modes at the most. But here I have seven times that number, just to be on the safe side, because there are still many unfathomable things in a man’s life …’

  Here the eagle would spread its wings again and remain rigid in that position.

  ‘And now let us begin, friends. Only two and a half lira! For just two and a half lira you will hold the
mirror to your fate, you will know what will befall you all the days of your life! See how this great holy eagle is waiting for you with outstretched wings …’

  The crowd would line up, while the eagle, its wings folded tight, a strange elongated bird now, waddled over the board, picking out slips of paper with its strong hooked black beak and putting them in the hand of the little man, who presented them to the customers. This went on till evening, the eagle growing more and more tired, its wings drooping, its neck thinning out, its feathers quivering, lustreless, wet, and there were days when its trembling legs would flag and it would drop down unable to get up again, stretched out over the board, motionless, its eyes half-closed, veiled with a white film. Then, the fortune-seller, seized with grief and fright, would gather the eagle up in his arms, throw the board on to his back and hasten away, followed by angry looks, gibes and curses from those people who had been waiting to have their fortunes drawn.

  It wasn’t only in the Çekmece market-place that the fortune-seller produced his eagle. His sphere of activity included all the principal places where markets were held in Istanbul, Yeşilköy, Hasköy, Balat, Kadiköy, Beşiktaş, Feriköy, Cağlayan … It was rumoured of this glabrous, shabby man that he owned property in the best quarters of the town, a huge mansion on the shores of the Bosphorus and partnerships in a factory and a bank, all of it earned by the eagle.

  ‘Good for the man!’

  ‘Every single thing that eagle tells comes true. Such a mirror it holds up to you that your whole future, your life, your death, all are laid bare.’

  ‘It’s a service to mankind that fellow is doing. He’s got every right to the money and houses he makes out of it.’

  ‘Who knows what trouble it was to him …?’

  ‘They say he went himself to Mount Kaf.’

  ‘Seven years he waited there for the Phoenix’s egg to hatch! Seven years!’

  ‘In that rocky wilderness!’