The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  ‘Not five days,’ Lame Hasan muttered aloud. ‘One day, only one short night …’

  ‘What are you talking about, Hasan, for God’s sake?’ Kadir Agha cried.

  Lame Hasan started. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said, mopping his brow. ‘Go on, Taner my boy, read.’

  ‘A new order has been issued to shoot to kill the gangster Zeynel Çelik …’

  ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Kadir Agha.

  ‘Poor lad, they’re going to kill him,’ Lame Hasan whispered.

  Taner went on reading. ‘Last night in Unkapani the police closed in on Zeynel Çelik as he was trying to abduct a workgirl from the Cibali tobacco factory, but the gangster, firing on the police, broke out of the trap and escaped, leaving the girl behind. “Nobody raped me,” she said, in her statement. That man was just someone from my home town. His name? Zeynel … I don’t know his surname … Çelik, you say? Ah, yes, Çelik …”’ Taner unfolded another newspaper. ‘Look,’ he cried, ‘here’s a photo of Zeynel with a woman beside him, a very smart woman. It says that she’s Zeynel’s sweetheart. But does this man look like Zeynel to you?’

  Lame Hasan took the paper and scrutinized it carefully. ‘Allah, Allah,’ he exclaimed, as he passed it on to Kadir Agha. ‘How’s it possible? A man can’t change so in a couple of days.’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Kadir Agha said. ‘My eyes aren’t so good.’

  ‘Selim, Selim! Come here,’ Lame Hasan called out to Fisher Selim who was standing on the little bridge that led to the beach. ‘Take a look at this paper. Is this fellow here Zeynel? How can a man change …?’ He was going to say, ‘It’s only a couple of days since I saw him, this isn’t Zeynel, this Zeynel Çelik’s someone else.’

  Fisher Selim glanced briefly at the paper Taner held out to him. ‘Of course it isn’t Zeynel,’ he snapped and turned away.

  ‘But if it isn’t,’ Kadir Agha objected, ‘why should they publish just anybody’s photo like that? Tell me, why?’

  ‘That moustache,’ Taner commented. ‘The thick jaw, the large shoulders … This fellow doesn’t look like Zeynel at all.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a disguise,’ suggested Lame Hasan.

  ‘But the man’s quite different,’ Taner said.

  ‘Well, you go on reading, Taner.’

  Taner picked up a newspaper. ‘“Zeynel Çelik is very nimble, very quick,” says the chief of police, “it’s going to be quite difficult to catch him, but we will, and very soon too. Our men are on his track. We’ve got hold of several leads that we’re following up …”’

  ‘They’ll never catch him,’ Lame Hasan declared. ‘Go on, Taner, read.’

  ‘Zeynel Çelik and his gang were traced last night to a Laz fishing scow at the Ayvansaray repair docks, but under the cover of darkness the gangsters managed to get away. A very fast motor-launch was waiting for them, moored to a pier on the Golden Horn, so fast that although the police gave chase it was way away on the Marmara by the time they had reached Galata Bridge. This motor-launch was found later off the Kalamiş coast, abandoned, strewn with pistachio shells. The gangsters had eaten a great quantity of pistachios as they fled.’

  ‘Go on, Taner, go on.’

  ‘Gangster Zeynel Çelik’s new murder: The dangerous gangster has now committed his seventh murder since the killing of that other gangster Ihsan in a Menekşe coffee-house. His new victims, a multi-millionaire and his wife, were shot in the nape of the neck after having been lashed to each other in their fifty-three-million-lira villa in Bebek. It is believed that the gangster and his men forced their way into the villa at one in the morning and, after killing both husband and wife, made off with one and a half million lira in money and jewellery to the value of four million. The servants arriving in the morning discovered the bodies lying in a pool of blood.’

  ‘Now, that’s not good!’ Lame Hasan exclaimed. ‘That was a cruel, bloodthirsty thing for him to do … Well, well, well, but what a very rich man that was!’

  ‘And young too,’ Taner said. ‘Look at their photos.’

  ‘They probably inherited all that fortune from their families,’ Lame Hasan sighed.

  ‘The poor lambs!’ Kadir Agha cried, peering at the paper. ‘May your hands wither, Zeynel!’ At once he regretted having spoken like this. What if it reached Zeynel’s ears? ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Maybe they did something to Zeynel, perhaps he had a grudge against them.’

  ‘Listen,’ Taner said. ‘It says here that the man made all this huge fortune in only ten years.’

  ‘H’m,’ Lame Hasan commented, ‘there’s something fishy about that.’

  ‘Yes, very fishy,’ Kadir Agha concurred.

  ‘Not that much!’ Taner said. ‘Istanbul’s full of young self-made multi-millionaires like the one Zeynel killed and they’ve all made their fortunes by shady means … Listen, there’s a great deal more about Zeynel’s doings in the papers. He’s the terror of the whole town and he’s got the police so they don’t know whether they’re on their heads or their heels.’

  ‘Who’d ever have expected it of that puny lad?’

  ‘Like an undersized, thin-bellied, hungry greyhound he was …’

  ‘Last night …’

  ‘Are you reading from the newspaper?’

  ‘Yes … Last night the police surrounded Zeynel Çelik in the de luxe residential district of Arifpaşa Grove on the Bosphorus. As our newspaper was going to press, reports were still coming in of a violent clash with the gangsters. A responsible police officer stated to our correspondent that they would get Zeynel this time, dead or alive.’

  ‘It’s all up with him then,’ Kadir Agha said. ‘Who can hold out against so many policemen?’

  Taner smiled broadly. ‘I know Zeynel, uncle,’ he said. ‘We grew up together. No one can catch him. Mark my words, you’ll read in tomorrow’s papers that Zeynel Çelik’s broken through the pincers again.’

  ‘Inşallah!’ Kadir Agha said. ‘Let’s hope so. I gave him a lot of fish as a boy …’

  ‘And I …’ Again Lame Hasan held his tongue just in time. If these people only knew that it was he, Lame Hasan, who had saved Zeynel from the police the other day …

  The coffee-house was in an uproar, with everyone shouting, arguing and swearing all together.

  Süleyman slipped away unseen and ran all the way to his house. ‘Woman,’ he said to his wife, ‘pack up a few things and let’s get out of here. That monster’s running wild, killing whoever he comes across. Last night he butchered a millionaire and his wife in Bcbek. If he does this to an innocent millionaire, what will he do with me! If only I hadn’t stepped on that dog’s hand … It wasn’t on purpose at all.’

  ‘Don’t deny it, Süleyman,’ his wife said rancorously. ‘It was on purpose. You did the same to me when you made me sort fish from your net on a bitterly cold day. Well, let’s see you save your sweet life from his hands, let’s see you!’

  ‘Not a word to anyone, not a word! Get ready, quick. And the children … While I fetch a car … He’ll come after me if he finds out where we’re going. First to Ambarli and then we’ll take a bus to … Quick, quick!’

  He rushed out and was back five minutes later with a 1950-model Chevrolet. ‘Are you ready?’ Taking his wife by the hand he hurried her and his two children into the taxi. Only then did he relax. ‘To Ambarli,’ he ordered the driver. ‘Now let those Menekse folk worry, let Fisher Selim worry, the bastard! Let him figure out how many pieces Zeynel’s going to hack out of him! Does a man in his right sense spit on the likes of Zeynel? Hah, he’s in for it all right, that Selim!’

  The next morning dawned, bright and warm. Menekşe smelled of the sea and was bathed in sunlight.

  ‘Zeynel didn’t attack us last night,’ Hatçe commented as she sat knitting a jumper for her husband, the fisherman Kemal. She was a long-faced woman with one of her front teeth missing. Two thin braids of hair hung down her sagging breasts. Over a pair of green trousers she wore a short skirt of flowered calico and her head
was bound in an orange kerchief pinked with large mauve flowers.

  ‘He’ll be coming the night after tomorrow.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘It’s what the newspapers say! Zeynel said, “I can’t live as long as that Menekşe stands there …”’

  ‘He said, “I’ll never give myself up before setting fire to that place and shooting down every one of those people, children and all.” It was in the papers.’

  ‘You know what he did the other night to the police? He stripped them all mother-naked.’

  ‘Yes, indeed! It was in the papers.’

  ‘Then he tied them to each other, chucked them all into a Laz scow and left them way out in the middle of the Marmara Sea.’

  ‘Only three days later were they rescued, hungry, naked, fainting …’

  ‘Yes, indeed! It was in the papers.’

  ‘Zeynel had warned the police, “Don’t come after me or it’ll be the worse for you …”’

  ‘He’s got quite a gang now.’

  ‘And all of them crack shots …’

  A group of Menekşe women had gathered under the willow trees where the fishing nets were spread to dry and from every side came a fresh surmise about Zeynel.

  ‘Süleyman’s cleared out!’

  ‘What else could he do? It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Fisher Selim’s taken himself off too.’

  ‘Fisher Selim wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘Look, there he is, standing on the bridge, gazing at the sea.’

  ‘Let him gaze away, he’ll see what’s coming to him!’

  ‘He’ll find out what it costs to spit on the likes of Zeynel in front of everyone!’

  ‘One day, I remember, Zeynel was passing by our door, back from fishing, soaked, his hair ruffled like a wet kitten’s. “Why, my poor child, my little Zeynel,” I said, “you’re freezing!” And I gave him a large chunk of spinach pie.’

  ‘Zeynel wouldn’t set fire to our house, never! Why, I knitted that sweater for him that he’s still wearing …’

  ‘They say Zeynel’s bought himself a mansion on the shores of the Bosphorus.’

  ‘Nonsense! What would he do with a mansion?’

  ‘They say Zeynel’s engaged to the daughter of the millionaire, Osman Tuzlu …’

  ‘He’s been seen riding in a huge sky-blue limousine …’

  ‘He shoots down anyone he doesn’t like the look of …’

  ‘How could we have guessed he’d turn out like this, our mousy Zeynel?’

  ‘Poor lad, he was so meek … “Go catch that snake with your bare hands,” you could tell him, and he’d do it.’

  ‘“Get me a shark from the depths of the sea …” And he’d do it.’

  ‘They say he cleared a clean two and a half million in those bank hold-ups. And he’s still at it, stealing even more.’

  ‘What’s he doing with all that money?’

  ‘Why, everyone knows the answer to that! He went straight to Ümraniye where they pulled down the shanties the other day. “Take this money,” he said, “it’s all yours.” Yes, he gave every penny he’d robbed from the bank to those poor homeless squatters.’

  ‘Zeynel’s going to buy a brand-new boat for Kadir Agha. With radar too!’

  ‘Radar?’

  ‘Yes, so as to be able to spot all the fish at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘And he’s going to buy an apartment for Fatma Abla …’

  It started to rain, gently at first, a soft patter on the ground and over the sea. Then a strong gust blew in, tossing the branches of the willows this way and that, tearing off the leaves and sending the women scurrying to the shelter of their homes.

  14

  It was always at three o’clock that I used to meet Selim on the little jetty. He would be waiting in his boat, busy with his nets. ‘Jump in,’ he would call in a pleased voice and I would walk along the shaking boards of the rickety jetty to the far end where his boat was moored.

  We would set out at once in the direction of Hayirsiz Island where he’d look around for the big fish, then steer for one of his seamarks. There we would cast our lines down into the secret depths of the murmuring, translucent, emerald-green sea.

  Fisher Selim’s clothes, his hair, his hands were invariably covered with fish scales. On entering the coffee-house he would be preceded by a pleasant odour of the sea and he himself always smelled strongly of fish. It was Fisher Selim who said that the man of the sea carries his smell with him wherever he goes.

  ‘And his scales too …’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Yes, his scales too.’

  First, he had worked as a coachman on Büyükada Island. The owner of the carriage was a Circassian, and Selim’s job was to look after the horses and drive his fares, mostly elegant ladies, around this pleasure island. But ever present in his mind was the thought of his mother. I must go and see her this winter, he resolved. For some reason he did not do so. How old was he at the time? He had no idea. Why had he run away from home? He never told me. The second summer he quarrelled with the Circassian and found another job with a Greek greengrocer on neighbouring Burgaz Island. All through that summer he carted cases of vegetables and fruit, always with the idea of setting out for Uzunyayla as soon as winter came. But instead he got work on board a fishing boat, thinking that in another year he would have saved even more money. That winter he discovered the tavernas of Beyoğlu and tasted his first raki and his first woman too. He developed a passion for fishing. The master of his boat was a Greek, Hristo, a jovial fellow who spent all his earnings carousing in Beyoğlu or with his lady friend, Despina. Selim had got to like Hristo. For three years he worked for him, the two men on the best of terms, sharing work and pleasure alike, though Selim still nursed the plan of going to Uzunyayla.

  One day, Hristo, blind drunk as usual, was quarrelling with himself, which he often did when he had had a drop too much, scolding and swearing for all he was worth. A keen northeaster was blowing. It was freezing, and raging waves were beating at the island, coming half-way up the houses along the shore. Hristo jumped into his boat, which was moored in the little bay, and steered for Yalova. Selim ran after him, but it was too late. In vain he waved and shouted, up to his waist in ice-cold water. Hristo did not so much as glance back and three days later his boat was found aground off the coast of Yalova. He was never heard of again, neither alive nor dead. After this, Selim could not stay on in Burgaz Island, but as Hristo had no relatives that anyone knew of, his boat came to Selim. It was a good solid craft with a powerful engine, a Volvo Penta. Selim decided to go to Kumkapi. In those days there was not another boat like this one in all of Kumkapi. That winter Fisher Selim caught a lot of fish and made a pile of money. Next spring, he vowed to himself, I’ll go to Uzunyayla to see my mother … But that was the year he was conscripted and sent to Mount Ararat where he fought and was wounded, ending up in Cerrahpaşa Hospital in Istanbul. And there he met the fair-haired nurse …

  Ever present in his mind was a promise, her promise that she would wait for him until her dying day. His mother, his brothers, Uzunyayla, gambling, drinking, all were set aside. He knew that one day, yes, he was sure of it, he would be reunited with her. On that day, that is, on the day when he’d built a house, a house to match her beauty, he would go straight to the hospital, take her by the hand and bring her home. They would be married at the Beyoğlu registry office, the bride almost invisible in the profusion of flowers …

  So all these years he had scrimped and saved for this house. He was still saving for it and, as time passed, the girl’s image was growing even clearer in his mind’s eye. On those days when he had made a lot of money and put it away in his special hiding-place, he would dress in his best clothes and set out to find a plot of land for his house. The first place that had caught his eye was in the Maden quarter of Büyükada Island. Without finding out who the place belonged to, he planted seven pine trees on it an
d went back again and again to watch them grow. After a while he grew dissatisfied and found a place more to his liking on Burgaz Island where he also planted a few trees. This too, in time, seemed not good enough for his fair-haired love and he opted for a spot near the sea at Florya. There he planted three plane trees. Next it was Yeşilköy that took his fancy. This time it was lime trees he put in. This also palled in a few years. Finally, one day when he was out fishing in the Bosphorus, he came upon a plot of land with tall shady plane trees. This is it, he said. He went straight to the Beykoz nursery and bought seven olive saplings which he promptly planted there. This land belonged to a retired official from the Revenue, who had inherited it among other property from his grandfather, a rich pasha. Fisher Selim considered the land reserved for him once he had planted trees on it. So he never thought of paying a deposit to the white-haired, scraggy-necked old man whom he would see each time he went to Çengelköy, sitting under the venerable plane tree in the seaside café and smoking a nargileh. So sure was Selim of his land that he had long ago engaged masons, carpenters and other craftsmen and had for years now been discussing with them every detail of the house he planned to build.

  ‘Well, Selim?’ Haydar, the master craftsman would call out whenever he passed the fisherman’s door. ‘When are we starting on that house of yours?’

  Selim would get all flustered. ‘Soon, very soon, master … Will you be free in a few days?’

  ‘I’m free any time for you, my friend.’

  ‘Thank you, master, thank you,’ Selim would say hurriedly, avoiding any further commitment.

  Everyone, the carpenters, the masons, the fishermen, all of Menekşe were waiting for that happy day when Selim would build his rich mansion.

  It had been the same with Selim’s old flame, the Greek girl. For her too Selim had planned a house in a garden with huge trees. He would keep talking to her about it, changing the location and shape of the dream house each day. ‘Vre, Selim!’ the girl had said to him one night after their love-making, ‘all you do is talk! Vre, it’s castles in the air you’re building, not a house!’ At this, Selim had gone away in a huff, slamming the door behind him. That was the last he saw of his Greek sweetheart before her mother whisked her off to Athens.