The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  The lodos wind was blustering away at its strongest. White foaming waves, high as minarets, pounded at the shores of the city and cascaded on to the coastal roads. It was raining and the leaden domes of the mosques shone dully. Not a single boat was to be seen on the storm-tossed sea.

  Zeynel and Dursun Kemal were drenched to the skin. Last night, they had somehow found their way into a ship anchored in the port and had slept a fitful sleep there at the foot of one of its warm funnels. For the stray children of Sirkeci, boats were an ideal place to spend the night. Not only were they warm there, but also safe from the nightwatchmen, and as for the sailors, they were indulgent and did not throw them out in the middle of the night.

  This morning Zeynel was feeling better and his mind was clearer. He stretched his limbs and rubbed his eyes, slowly shaking off a pleasant drowsiness. Then suddenly he started to his feet and dashed to the stairway. It was a very dangerous thing they had done, spending the night here … These long-distance ships were always full of police. How, when, had they got on board? He did not know. Dimly he recalled being surrounded on all sides by some twenty policemen, and Hüseyin Huri with a gun in his hand, ready to shoot, but he could not remember how they managed to escape. He had lost sight of Dursun Kemal. How had the boy found him again? He recollected a confusion of dreams in his broken sleep, curled up tightly against the warm funnel, one side of him wet, icy cold under the rain … Lame Hasan down to his waist in the water in front of the Ahirkapi lighthouse, struggling with a red mullet he had caught, huge, bigger than himself, the fish dragging him far out into the Marmara Sea … Burning seagulls … Swarms of policemen … And himself whirling in the darkness, a dense, solid, pitch-black darkness, and pouring over him tiny bullets like grains of sand, aflame …

  He ran down the stairs, out on to the wharf and on towards the iron gates facing Tophane Fountain. It was still very early and there was nobody about in the streets. He had to find a taxi and get to Lame Hasan. He would be safe then. The nylon bags were held tightly in his hand. Not once had he let go of them, even sleeping with them under his head as a pillow. He glanced back, and there was Dursun Kemal, gazing at him adoringly, with shining eyes … A wave of affection swept over Zeynel, quickly replaced by pity. Poor Dursun Kemal, he thought, poor child, his mother killed, and by his own father, sixty gashes in her body, her breasts, her … Who knows how heartsick he is, what tears of blood he must be shedding inside …? He went up to him and gently stroked his head. Tears filled Zeynel’s eyes, his throat tightened and suddenly he saw himself dead, his twisted body riddled with bullets, frozen in blood. His wide panic-stricken eyes darted to right and left and lighted on a taxi near the fountain. He rushed up to it, followed by Dursun Kemal.

  ‘To Kumkapi,’ he said. ‘No, no, to Ahirkapi.’

  At Ahirkapi they walked over to the seashore and sat down on the rocks.

  ‘The rain’s stopped,’ Zeynel said. ‘The sun’ll be up soon. It’ll dry us.’

  ‘Will Lame Hasan come now?’ Dursun Kemal asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Zeynel said confidently. ‘He’s been doing this for sixty years, after every lodos wind, raking the length of the shore from here to Menekşe. Even at his age his eyes are like a hawk’s.’

  Lame Hasan, Yellow Hidayet, Cemal from Topkapi and Hüsnü from Kasimpaşa, these were veteran southwinders. The days after the lodos has turned the sea upside down, casting on to the shore a world of things that lie in its depths, are boon days for the southwinders. At first light when the bottom of the sea is clear and bright, brighter by far than in the daylight, then the keen eyes of the southwinder find it even easier to detect objects below the surface.

  Southwinding is an old occupation in Istanbul, dating back to the days of Byzantium. Lame Hasan was a good fisherman, one of the best, but his real vocation was beachcombing. On such mornings the southwinder rises joyfully from his bed even before the sea has paled. He says his prayers and sets out for the shore, great hopes in his heart. What wonders has this sea not given to Istanbul’s southwinders after every lodos! The so-called Spoonmaker’s Diamond, the famous Kaşikçi, for instance, there’s not another stone like it in the whole world, so large, so sumptuous, glittering with a thousand and one colours …. Well, that very stone was discovered one day at crack of dawn by an Istanbul southwinder among the pebbles on the shore beneath the old city walls and he exchanged it for a wooden spoon! What does it matter if he only got a wooden spoon, the southwinder, he was the one to find that marvellous diamond, wasn’t he? Ever since then, Istanbul southwinders have been fired with the hope of finding another such stone, an even larger one, and-why not? – they may still do so …The sea is infinite, generous, bountiful.

  And so the Istanbul southwinders are always there at dawn on after-lodos days, knee-deep in the biting cold water, their eagle eyes on the watch for the tiniest glint at the bottom of the sea. Gold coins they have found on these shores, Byzantine, Ottoman, Russian coins, gold ingots, emeralds, rubies, diamonds, pearls … Bracelets, necklaces, brooches, rings … Every kind of object is washed up from the Marmara Sea.

  Nowadays, the southwinders have moved with the times. They all wear knee-high rubber boots and no longer freeze in the icy water. Only Lame Hasan has never got used to this devil’s invention and still walks into the sea with his legs bare, his trousers rolled up. Everyone knows how Lame Hasan bought his beautiful house. He makes no secret of it. On the contrary, he is always proud to tell anyone he comes across.

  ‘The sea was clear and bright, the sun just about to come up. All the brightness of the sun before it rises is gathered in the sea and every single object at the bottom – pebbles, coins, diamonds, fish, pearls, rubies, corals – seems much larger in this light. So there I was that day, and suddenly I saw ahead of me, only a little way off, a red blinking flame. Oh my God, I said, glory be! What on earth can shine as red as this at the bottom of the sea, shooting rays like shining arrows, zigzagging in the water, flaming red like a piece of iron in a forge? I ran, I swam, I flew, and dived on to the red glow. I picked it up and, oh my God, all praise to you, it was a ruby, a huge ruby large as my thumb! At that time there was a certain Master Hayk, an antique-dealer in the Covered Bazaar, a good honest man whom we southwinders all trusted. I went straight to him, just as I was, my trousers still rolled up, with that stone like a burning ember in my hand. “Why, Hasan,” Master Hayk said, “but it’s a fortune you’ve got there,” and he opened his safe and began to count out money, so much I thought it would never end. “Here,” he said, “take this money and buy yourself a house the first thing you do. A house of one’s own is a must for everyone …” I did as he said and bought this very house you see here. God be praised for this generous bountiful sea …’

  Lame Hasan had also found a lot of gold and rings and pearls. And once he came upon a statue, a precious antique, but by that time Master Hayk was dead and some other Covered Bazaar dealer bought it from him for nothing near its real value.

  At one time, Zeynel had developed a yen for southwinding, but his thin body could not stand the freezing water. Once he was dragged out of the sea, hall-fainting, his body blue, and for fifteen days he lay between life and death. His acquaintance with Lame Hasan dated from that time. It was from him he learnt what patience meant, how to persevere and never lose hope. Whenever the lodos wind had blown itself out, Lame Hasan would always be up with the dawn, making for the seashore in a whirlwind of joy, radiant with hope, not even limping any more, with the trembling premonition that a bright red ruby or a diamond twice as large as the Kaşikçi Diamond was there waiting for him. And even when he found nothing and in the evening went into Yanaki’s tavern his legs blue with cold, empty-handed, he would still not have lost anything of his faith and good cheer. ‘Here’s a toast to Master Hayk,’ he would start off, ‘though he’s dead and gone … Let’s drink another one to all the good red mullet of the sea, to the sea’s diamonds and rubies and gold. Come on, one more …’ And his last glass would be lifted
to Istanbul. ‘Here’s to our own Istanbul and its bountiful sea …’

  It was not long before they saw Lame Hasan coming down the stone steps to the shore. He removed his shoes and trousers, tied the legs of the trousers together, putting one shoe inside each, then hung them round his neck, and, with a long smooth stick in his hand, started off westward. Zeynel and Dursun Kemal followed him. On and on Lame Hasan waded along the shore, never once looking up, thoroughly absorbed, tasting to the full the beauty of the mist-swathed sea in the half-light, the brightness welling up from below, the pure thrill of the search.

  Thus, they reached Kumkapi. Once in while, Lame Hasan’s face would flash with joy. He would pick something out of the water and gaze at it in ecstasy.

  … A very large oil tanker was on fire way up on the Bosphorus off Anadolukavagi. It had burst into flames without warning. All but five of the crew had escaped by jumping overboard. The others had perished. In an instant, the tanker was a mountain of flames, shedding a red glare over the shores of the Bosphorus, the houses, trees, fishnets, anchored ships, landing-stages, the many-coloured Laz fishing scows. The swift currents of the Bosphorus flowed like rivers of fire and the tanker, out of control, eddied down the strait as though caught in a vortex, tall flames high as minarets spurting from the blazing mass and flaring up into the night.

  Istanbul was in the grip of fear. Villas and apartment buildings on the shores of the Bosphorus had been evacuated, for who knew where this mountain of burning oil would strike and explode? Perhaps the whole city would be set ablaze. Slowly floating down the strait, the tanker was nearing Çubuklu. The danger here was great because of the huge petroleum reservoirs on the shore. If the tanker came too near and the fire jumped to the reservoirs, then the whole of the Asiatic side of Istanbul would go up in flames. But just as it was about to enter Çubuklu Bay the tanker was caught up in another current and began to drift away towards Yeniköy on the opposite shore. The threat was now to the ancient, historic residences, each one a small palace, and to the lofty age-old plane trees that graced Yeniköy. The quay in front of Iskender’s ice-cream shop was thronged with onlookers, all agog and secretly rather excited by the spectacle of the incandescent ship. The sky glowed bright red, and huge shadows and fiery lights filled the streets and squares of the city. Giant people, giant trees, giant boats hurtled through Istanbul in wild confusion.

  In mid-course the tanker stopped, its flames higher, more furious than ever, while before it the dark waters of the Bosphorus flowed swiftly on in waves of fire towards the Marmara Sea.

  All of Istanbul was astir and making for the Bosphorus in cars, buses, lorries, running as if to an unexpected diversion, and the streets, plazas and piers were packed to overflowing. The people of Menekşe too, at the news that not only a tanker but the sea itself was on fire, hastily rented a lorry and were in time to get to the burning ship on the second night. Lame Hasan had taken Zeynel along and never let go of his hand when the lorry stopped at Beşiktaş where they had a good view of the tanker. It was a wild dance of shadows, intertwirling, bending and twisting with the flames of the burning ship. Zeynel, his hand tight in Lame Hasan’s warm hand, had huddled into a small ball between the press of legs in the lorry. Flames tearing from the churning mountain of fire were streaming over them. Zeynel dared not lift his head to have another look, but the fiery mountain took on different shapes in his mind. The tanker drifted on, shooting out flames like great birds over sea and sky, making the night as bright as day, and came to a standstill in the middle of the Marmara, spinning on itself at lightning speed like a sparkling top, its flames boring into the sky, until it burnt itself out. This was not only Zeynel’s fancy. Lame Hasan and the other fishermen too told how the flaming ship spiralled itself up into the sky …

  Lame Hasan stopped short. The surface of the sea was quite white, as though covered with snow. A few seagulls hovered immediately above him, motionless, their wings outstretched against the light breeze. Suddenly, Lame Hasan darted down, clothes and all, and emerged holding something. He glanced about him covertly and quickly dropped the object into his bag. Then he took off his shirt and undershirt, wrung them out and, throwing them over his arm, proceeded towards Yedikule almost naked, every now and then extracting the object from his bag and gazing at it with a broad smile.

  Dursun Kemal nudged Zeynel. ‘Look, Abi,’ he whispered, pointing to a blue police van on the opposite side of the highway.

  ‘Sit down,’ Zeynel said, and crept away to crouch among the rocks under the embankment.

  In the distance, near Büyükada Island, a short brilliant radiance flashed and was gone. Zeynel shivered.

  … That head sticking out of the porthole in the burning ship, eyes bulging, mouth twisted in a horrible grimace … And Zeynel, terror-struck, running helplessly this way and that …

  Zeynel and a few other vagrant boys were just settling down for the night under the funnel of a ship which had newly put into port when the fire broke out. It had not been easy to get on to the ship. They had waited, hidden among some large crates under the winch that was hoisting off cattle, horses and donkeys, double-strapped under their bellies, and hundreds of cackling poultry in large cages. Sheep and goats had been unloaded first and were now being herded among the crates by the shepherds. The boys had slipped in unnoticed in the wake of an elderly man carrying a huge register, and had quickly made for the funnel in joyful anticipation of a peaceful night.

  Suddenly, a tall flame shot out of the hold. There was a deafening explosion and flames spread over the ship. In an instant the deck was an incredible turmoil of howling men, bellowing cattle, neighing horses and braying donkeys. All the ships in the harbour started sounding their sirens. Zeynel and his companions rushed madly about the burning deck and a little dog ran along with them. Finally, they managed to find the stairway. The little dog was left behind, engulfed by the flames, squealing … On the wharf some hundred buffaloes, thirty to forty cows and oxen, a hundred and fifty horses and donkeys, driven crazy by the tumult, the blast, the flames, stampeded out of the port, pell-mell, trampling over each other, and dispersed into the night. Frantic buffaloes careered through the streets of the city, lunging at people, particularly the dummies in shop windows. With a resounding crash the windows smashed, and the buffaloes, wounded, bleeding, whipped into a frenzy by the din of shattering glass, charged at every shadow, every light, at every window or door in their path. All hell broke loose throughout the city. Beyoğlu Avenue was a seething mass of men, buffaloes, horses and bulls, dashing wildly hither and thither. Then police and soldiers reached the scene. Shot after shot rang out, as in a battle, echoing and re-echoing through the whole city. The bulls and buffaloes hurtled to the ground, bellowing, their blood spurting through the broken windows of shops and banks, the horses sank down, neighing one last bitter whinny. When day broke and people ventured out of their houses, Beyoğlu Avenue was strewn with dead buffaloes, oxen, horses, and the streets were running with blood down to Tünel, Yüksekkaldirim and Şişhane. Beyoğlu was like a bombed city. Zeynel was crushed between two dead buffaloes, frozen stiff …

  … In the Küçükçekmece slaughterhouse, under the bridge on the outskirts of the little town, a large, powerful buffalo had been stretched out on the ground and the butcher was cutting its throat. The knife had reached the bone when with unbelievable force the buffalo suddenly broke its bonds, shook off the butcher and the other men, flinging them right and left, and sprinted away, galloping like a horse, in the direction of Menekşe, blood gushing from its neck, its head hanging to one side. The men sitting in Menekşe coffee-house sprang up at the monstrous sight of the gory buffalo and dispersed like a covey of partridges. A couple of trucks and some cars were blocking the buffalo’s way. The beast wheeled round and round, spurting blood all over the open place by the beach. Then it plunged into the sea and began to swim away, a red stain of blood spreading around it. The butchers arrived in hot pursuit with knives in their hands. They got into a motorboat
and caught up with the fleeing buffalo. Tying a rope to its horns they towed it back to the shore, but as soon as its feet touched ground the buffalo wrenched itself free and began to gallop round and round in front of the coffee-house. Just then the gangster Ihsan appeared. He drew out his gun and fired three times. The buffalo crashed to the ground. As Ihsan replaced the smoking gun at his waist, a scream rose from the little bridge leading to the beach and Zeynel was seen to sink down against the railing, his whole body clamped fast in a rigid ball. They rubbed him with ointments, made him inhale all kinds of herbal infusions, but it was not until evening prayer that they could loosen his limbs …

  The sun rose, its rays struck the water and rings of light preceded the little waves that came to break on the rocky shore. Little white clouds cast long shadows over the bright pebbly seabed. Lame Hasan’s feet in the water lengthened and broke away from him as he plodded on. After a while he turned inshore and slumped on to a flat rock. Spreading his clothes around him, he opened his bag and began to examine his finds, smiling with pleasure. Zeynel and Dursun Kemal approached and crouched down in front of him. The hair on Lame Hasan’s chest was quite white, his arms were emaciated and his ribs stuck out. His breathing was laboured. Harsh wheezing sounds issued from his throat. He was shivering. Zeynel felt a wave of pity for him. He coughed and Lame Hasan lifted his head.

  ‘Is that you, Zeynel my child?’ he said. He did not seem at all surprised to see him there. ‘It’s a good thing you didn’t come back to me after that day. The house is surrounded by police. Even here in Kumkapi, they don’t let a bird fly past. A whole lot of Zeynels they’ve arrested so far …’

  ‘They’re going to kill me, Uncle Hasan,’ Zeynel moaned. ‘They’ll shoot a hundred bullets into my head. They’ll blow my brains out. It’s at my head they’ll fire …’ He leaped up and clasped Lame Hasan’s hands. ‘Don’t let me be killed, Uncle Hasan, please!’