The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  ‘For shame, Abi! We’re your prisoners now, and you’re giving us money too. Why should we escape?’

  ‘But who’s going to set you free after I’ve gone, if no one comes along?’

  ‘You just tie us up, Abi. We’ll see to the rest,’ Rifat said. ‘Anyway, the cops will soon be back.’

  ‘What! Why didn’t you tell me that? Damn you, you wretched little bastards, damn you, take this … And this …’ Beside himself, Zeynel hit out at them blindly with his gun. ‘Rifat,’ he said, dealing him a final kick, ‘take the cords off these little buggers’ trousers and tie up their hands and feet.’

  ‘As you say, Abi …’

  Zeynel held the torch on the boys whose hands and faces were running with blood, while Rifat cut each boy’s cord in two with a penknife and bound their hands and legs.

  ‘Tie those handkerchiefs round their mouths too …’

  When this was done, Zeynel proceeded to bind and gag Rifat in his turn. Then he lugged all three boys out into the cemetery. There he hesitated a minute, then drew a wad of money out of his hip pocket. They were all five-hundred-lira notes. He selected a batch and hid it in the hole of a tombstone. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘A thousand lira for your grandmother and the rest to be shared between you three. Don’t tell the police or they’ll take it away from you. Goodbye.’

  He was laughing to himself as he went back to the crypt. The money was there, he knew it. He had felt the earth with his foot while he was talking to the boys. His heart beating, he dug up the sack, swung it on to his shoulder and, leaping over the tombstones, ran into the street. There he drew up short. It wouldn’t do to be seen running. Whistling, he strolled down to the seaside and sat down at the foot of a tall pile-driver that towered on the embankment like a fairy-tale giant. Its very hugeness made him feel safe, as though he was in the heart of an iron mountain.

  And now what was he to do, where was he to hide all this money? He went on sitting there, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and when he was roused by the billing and cooing of a pair of lovers right behind him it was already dark. His hand went to the money sack. It was there, where he had put it. Tucking it under his arm, he staggered out on to the main road and hailed a taxi. ‘To Unkapani,’ he said. There was nothing for it. It had to be the lumber depot again. He could think of no other place where he could get some sleep.

  It had begun to rain. After a while they found themselves locked in a traffic jam, with policemen blowing their whistles, cars honking, people yelling, all to no avail. Suddenly the city lights went out and in the darkness the confusion became even greater. All the cars hooted their horns in unison. His own driver too was honking away non-stop. As they reached Unkapani Bridge at a snail’s pace, the lights came on and all the cars sounded their horns together again, exultantly this time. He got off in front of the Central Bank and made his way round the Cibali cigarette factory to the lumber depot. Just as he was about to jump in through the window, a hand grabbed him by the nape of his neck. He struggled, but could not shake off that strong grip. Then – how it happened he did not know – the bundle of money was under his left arm, the gun in his right hand, glinting under the street lamp, exploding, and he was free, on the opposite side of the street, all in an instant, and in his wake people shouting and the long strident blare of whistles. Just then the lights went out once more and in the stonelike darkness the rain gathered strength. He rushed uphill, past Lame Mustafa’s restaurant and into the Priest’s Garden. It was Mido again who had shown him this garden. Ah, if only she were with him now! What a bold gallant girl Mido was … The noise of running feet, guns firing, police whistles was coming nearer. Zeynel ran for all he was worth, bumping into walls and trees, tripping over brambles, cold with sweat, wet through, the bundle of money held tight under his jacket to keep it from the rain, taking care all the time not to fall into that dry well Mido had taken him to once. Finally he came upon the well. It was more of a large cistern and not nearly as deep as he’d thought. There were several cavities in its walls. Shining his little torch at one of them, he stuffed the sack of money in and closed, up the aperture with some stones. After this it was only a matter of minutes before he had slipped out of the garden and reached the Bozdoğan Aqueduct. Crossing under the passageway, he came to the Aksaray buffet and ordered three lahmacuns. He was wet to the bone and the money he drew from his pocket had turned to pulp. With trembling hands he managed to extract a hundred-lira note and handed it to the buffet man.

  Under an awning nearby a man with a drooping moustache was broiling corncobs over glowing, coral-like embers. Zeynel drew nearer to the brazier to catch a little of its warmth. The lahmacuns he devoured in an instant. ‘Broil me a nice fat one,’ he said to the corncob man, wiping his mouth with the lahmacun wrapping-paper. ‘Right-ho,’ the man said and he selected a good-sized corncob to put on the fire. ‘You’re very wet, brother. Where have you been in this weather?’

  Zeynel was upset by the question, but only for a moment. ‘I’ve been having a fling in Beyoğlu,’ he said, assuming a self-satisfied air, ‘and with all this rain I couldn’t find a dolmuş.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘From Rize,’ Zeynel answered.

  ‘It sticks out a mile,’ the man said.

  ‘How’s that?’ Zeynel said, piqued.

  ‘Your native accent, that’s how,’ the other laughed. ‘And also that Black Sea nose of yours.’

  Zeynel’s hand flew to his nose, then he burst out laughing too.

  ‘What d’you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a fisherman,’ Zeynel said. ‘What a drencher this is! And what’s your name, then?’

  ‘Abuzer,’ the corncob man said. He spoke with a strong Kurdish accent.

  ‘Malatya?’ Zeynel guessed.

  ‘You’ve hit it on the nose,’ the man laughed.

  Zeynel was studying Abuzer closely. Could he risk it, could he say to him, ‘Will you put me up tonight? I’ll pay you as much as you ask …’? But look at those eyes, Zeynel thought. He’s a sharp one. He’ll catch on in a minute and go straight to the police. Without a word of farewell, he rushed off down the boulevard to the seashore and sat down on the shingle. The rain was beating down with all its force. Across the sea the lights from the Princes Islands twinkled feebly. For a moment he entertained the idea of taking refuge there, but that would be like stepping into a trap. His leg ached. Feeling.it, he realized his trousers were tom. Suddenly the thought of his money made him jump. What if the police had discovered the hiding-place in the cistern? He sprinted up the steps and along the Aksaray Boulevard, then veered towards Topkapi to avoid being seen again by the corncob man. Aksaray Square was almost deserted at this hour. Some itinerant vendors still stood around with their barrows of oranges, apples, bananas and melons. There were also a few kebap-sellers, making ready to pack up. But at his meatball barbecue-car the old Tartar man was only just firing his coals. Clouds of smoke swirled out of the stovepipe as from the chimney of a factory. Zeynel halted in front of a çöp-kebap-vendor who had fixed his apparatus on a cart mounted on four bicycle wheels. On the side of the cart was the legend: ‘The Desert Gazelle Breadearner’. The tall-chimneyed brazier was very wide and heaped to the brim with glowing embers.

  ‘Sixteen skewers,’ Zeynel said.

  ‘Right away,’ the vendor said, pleased. He was a very old man with a short white beard, a long sallow face, shrivelled pouches under his eyes and a knife scar on his forehead. His wide shoulders were hunched, giving him a lopsided gait. Sprinkling the tiny little cubes of skewered lamb with salt and pepper, he laid them over the embers which he fanned with a piece of cardboard adorned with the picture of a naked woman. In a moment the odour of burning fat spread through the square and thick fumes smoked greenly in the neon lighting. Dextrously the man slipped the meat cubes off the sixteen skewers into a bread loaf and added half a tomato and a sprig of parsley. ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said.

  Zeynel was gratified at being called s
ir. Munching his bread and meat, he sped on under the rain, impelled by the vision of the police, under the guidance of Hüseyin Huri or even Mido, discovering his cache and taking away his money. Breathlessly, he swallowed the last of the bread, now reduced to a pulp by the rain. If only he could get a drink of water somewhere … Anyway, tomorrow the first thing he would do was to go to Beyoğlu and buy himself a new suit from that big store. No, no, not that one! Wouldn’t the salesman wonder how he’d got his clothes so messed up in only a couple of days? He would go to that other store opposite. And the shoes he would buy in Beyazit. Why, he could buy a hundred pairs if he wanted! He had tons of cash now. Then his heart sizzled and he hurried on to the Priest’s Garden.

  He was about to step in when he caught sight of shadows stirring in the direction of the cistern. He turned and fled. As he stumbled down the slope, windows and doors were flung open, then slammed shut again. Three men lunged at him from behind a minibus. Quickly, Zeynel slipped under a vine trellis into a side alley where two rows of old wooden houses tumbled over each other. Their windows were all dark. The few street lamps shone dully and dripped with rain. Under a lamppost was a man with a drawn gun in one hand and the long hair of a woman twined about the other. With much kicking and cursing, he was trying to drag her along with him, while she, for her part, stood fast, her feet planted firmly on the ground. Zeynel caught a glimpse of her bloodstained hands and ran for all he was worth, stopping a few streets higher up. Suddenly he saw two nightwatchmen marching his way from in front of the Orthodox Patriarchate, obviously suspicious of him. He staggered up to them, more dead than alive, his clothes clinging to his body, in a piteous state. ‘He’s killing her,’ he panted. ‘My big sister … He’s murdering her, that man down there.’ And he clutched at the arm of one of the watchmen as though he were going to faint. The watchman shook him off and he and his companion rushed down into the lower street, while Zeynel dashed into a side alley and found his way back again to the Priest’s Garden. Three shots rang out from the street below, followed by a long piercing scream. Zeynel heard the tramp of many feet ringing through the street. Quietly, he glided along the wall, not daring to look back. From behind him, the yellow neon light of a giant billboard fell over a half-rotten plane tree whose hollow trunk had been filled with cement. Drowned in this yellow light, he heard more loudly now the pounding of hob-nailed boots. He whirled round the broad trunk, steeped in yellowness, and whirling with him very slowly were a group of yellowed, elongated figures. Another long scream from down below, and Zeynel flung himself over the wet wall, leaving those long, resonant shades still wheeling round the thick cemented tree-trunk, captive in the dense yellow neon light. He bumped into trees, stumbled over bushes and fell spreadeagled over a long slab of stone. Some figures clustered above him and nightwatchmen began to blow their whistles, shriek after shriek. He jumped up and dashed on along the wall, nearer and nearer the cistern … Up to his neck in water, almost drowning …

  The next morning was sunny in Eminönü Square. Wet, ruffled pigeons, torpid and silent, huddled on the steps of the Valide Mosque, drying themselves. The shadows of the minarets reached all the way to the Vegetable Market in front of Rustem Paşa Mosque. Zeynel was dying of thirst and he still could not bring himself to get up, so tired was he. His knees ached as though they were being torn apart and the soles of his feet were burning. All the bones in his body cracking, he rose from the steps of the mosque and staggered up the footbridge and down to the buffet near the boat landing. He asked for a fizzy lemonade. It was ice-cold and he gulped it down at one go. All around him small boys were selling black-market cigarettes with shrill cries. Most of them he knew. They were from the Sirkeci gang. He ordered a bottle of mineral water and drank that too, but it only made him thirstier. He had to get away from here quickly, before one of these boys recognized him. He asked for some water. This he drank very slowly, looking warily about him. Then he slipped into the waiting-hall, out through another door and took a taxi for Beyoğlu.

  First he went into a shoe-shop and chose a pair of high-heeled shoes with platform soles, such as he’d dreamed of for years. He kept them on and had the muddy ones packed into a parcel. Next, he entered the fanciest ready-to-wear store in town and, more confident than ever, took the lift to the men’s department.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ A very pretty salesgirl greeted him without a look at his torn, muddy clothes. Again, it was the suit of his dreams he hit upon. In the little mirrored cubicle he fastened the gun under his armpit as Ihsan the gangster always used to do.

  ‘I want to buy an overcoat too,’ he said to the salesgirl. She led him to the coats department and handed him over to another girl.

  ‘Will you look after the gentleman?’ she said.

  The new girl was even prettier.

  ‘One of those,’ said Zeynel, indicating some coats. And at the third one he tried on: ‘This one.’

  The salesgirl smiled. It hadn’t taken long.

  Zeynel paid for his purchases on the ground floor and left, carrying all his old things in parcels. He felt rather wobbly in his new high-soled shoes and it seemed to him that everyone’s eyes were on him. At Galatasaray corner he turned into a side alley. Making sure no one was looking, he deposited his parcels in a corner and walked out again into the high street, where he took a taxi to Cibali. He got out just in front of the lumber depot. The air here smelled of tobacco from the cigarette factory and also of the all-pervading rotten stench of the Golden Horn. He examined the spot where he had shot the man the night before. There was no blood on the pavement, no trace of anything. The bullet must have only grazed him he surmised as he walked slowly up last night’s streets. He longed to get to the cache more quickly, but it would not do to be seen running in broad daylight.

  He came to the rusty iron gate of the Priest’s Garden and pushed it open fearfully. Inside, near the old cistern, a group of children were playing football, shouting shrilly at each other. Very slowly, looking warily about him, he approached the well. Suddenly he caught sight of the girl Mido. She was sitting there on the wall in close embrace with a youth whose hair was as long as the girl’s. This gave him a real shock. He retraced his steps at once. Was it possible? Had Mido found the money? And, worse, had she given it to the foppish fellow she was smooching with? If so, they’d see, those two, how Zeynel would make mincemeat of them!

  His legs wobbling, he wended his way down the slope. Mido and that dandy must be lying in wait and the moment those children were gone they would grab this stupid Zeynel’s money and spend it as lavishly as Vehbi Koç himself, while he, Zeynel … It was not to be borne. He must go back and do away with them both. Up the slope again he went, at a run, and back into the Priest’s Garden. The children were still at their noisy ball game and Mido and her long-haired swain were still engrossed in each other, lost to the world. Zeynel’s tight hold on the butt of his gun relaxed.

  Mido was only fourteen years old, but there was not a male in all Sirkeci that she had not lain with. She would gladly have gone with Zeynel too. And it was with this intention that she had brought him here last year when they had first met. They had climbed down into the cistern, but there Zeynel, seized with panic, had gone quite limp and this had made him so mad that he had almost killed the girl. And now she was necking with that fellow and as soon as the football players were gone they would make for the cistern and Mido would throw off her clothes and lie on her back, stark naked, her legs wide open …

  He drifted down the slope, but stopped at the bottom of the street. The time-worn cobbles shone in the bright sunshine as though polished. He could not tear himself away. Up he rushed again. The football players were still there and so was Mido with the young man. Relieved, he turned down the street, yet having reached the bottom of the slope his feet dragged him back. Again and again he found himself at the garden gate, weary, exhausted, thoroughly dispirited.

  It was nearly evening. Apartment buildings, houses, roads were all in the shad
ow now. Only the spires of the minarets shone in the fading daylight. A smoke haze was slowly settling over the Golden Horn.

  ‘Mido can’t have found the money. She hasn’t even looked for it, lusting as she is after that long-haired fellow. I’ll just wait till it’s dark …’

  He hailed a taxi for Beyoğlu. There, in the Flower Market, he bought three brightly striped nylon bags, then quickly returned to Cibali.

  Darkness was falling when he reached the Priest’s Garden. It was completely deserted. His heart pounding, he hurried to the cistern, jumped in and removed the stones from the hole. The sack with the money was right where he had put it. His whole body quivered with joy as he lifted it out. Such a lot of money … Sitting down on the stone, he began transferring the banknotes to the new nylon bags. Two of them he filled to the brim, and the third almost. He stuffed half a dozen wads into his pockets. The trouble was he needed a newspaper or something to cover the top of the bags so the money would not show. That newspaper-stand under the plane tree … It should still be open, he thought. He twisted the handles tightly together and set off. There was one last paper on the counter. He took it and left some change. In a secluded nook behind the factory, he covered the money with the pages from the newspaper so that the devil himself could not have guessed that these three shopping-bags held anything like banknotes.

  Emerging on Unkapani Avenue he hopped into a taxi. ‘To Beşiktaş,’ he said. He directed the driver up the Serencebey rise and got off at the mouth of the alley that led to Dursun Kemal’s house. He had hardly taken two steps when someone touched his arm. With a bound he was round the comer, his gun in his hand. Then, looking back, he recognized Dursun Kemal.

  ‘It’s only me, Zeynel Abi,’ Dursun Kemal said in a mournful tone. They’ve got the whole neighbourhood surrounded. I’ve been waiting here for you ever since that day. Come this way. There are no cops in that alley.’