by Yashar Kemal
‘Do you have your Mauser rifle, Uncle Selim, here in this boat?’
‘What Mauser, Zeynel?’
‘Well, the one … When Skipper Bald Dursun …’
‘Oh, that was long ago … I sold it.’
Zeynel felt better. But Vasili …
‘What kind of man is he, this Vasili, Uncle Selim?’
‘Vasili? Well, he’s a good man. He was born in the Samatya quarter of Istanbul, you know. He and Lame Hasan were the best fishers in Istanbul for red mullet. And good company he was too. We’d swig a drop together at Yanaki’s when we got back from fishing, and when he got to the mellow stage he’d take his buzuki and play old Anatolian tunes he’d learnt from his grandfather. What a man he was! Then he fell for the daughter of a Greek notable, but the notable said, “I’ve no daughter to give to that Karamanli Greek, to that Anatolian gypsy …” Was that a thing to say to Vasili, to the hothead he was then? “So, I’m an Anatolian gypsy, am I? Then, I’ll show you what an Anatolian gypsy can do!” And he set fire to the notable’s house that very night. He was going to kill him too, with all his family, but we held him back. Vasili would die rather than refuse a friend anything. So he just carried the girl off to Lame Hasan’s house. That night we all got into this boat, the girl, Vasili, Lame Hasan and I, the boat was brand-new then and Hristo still alive, and we set off and in no more than four days, perhaps only three, we came to the Greek island of Limnos. Vasili had many relatives there, all from Anatolia, a whole tribe, and all speaking Turkish. What a welcome they gave us, feasting us on honey and böreks and mastic-raki! We often Used to go back there afterwards, when things got a bit hot for us here. Vasili became very rich. He bought six fishing vessels and built himself a grand house, a real palace. Nine children he has. He’s like a king there. Limnos, all those islands are good places. How would he have turned out, Vasili, if he’d remained here – a pauper, just another down-and-out fisher like us … You’re lucky to be going to him. Maybe hell give you work in one of his boats. Besides, you’ve got so much money – there’s more than a million there surely – you can buy a boat yourself. There are a lot of Turks on that island. You’ll pull yourself together and get married too and have children. Maybe I’ll come one day to visit you with Lame Hasan. The people of Limnos all come from Anatolia, Muslim or Christian. They’re as hospitable as can be, ready to share their only loaf of bread with you … But you could also go to Germany if you wanted. Be careful about your money. Don’t exchange it cheaply. Make friends with our workers there, they need Turkish currency to send back to their families here. You’ll give them your Turkish lira in exchange for marks and, since you’ve got nobody to send your money to, you can put it in a bank …’ Warming to his subject, Fisher Selim talked on and on, and the more he talked the stronger grew Zeynel’s apprehensions.
Why is he talking so much? The two of them must have tricked Vasili into sailing off with them. Then, while Lame Hasan held him down, Fisher Selim fired his gun and with a great leap Vasili fell into the sea, a black hole in his head. The sea frothed with blood, and when they lifted him back into the boat the girl flung herself over his dead body. With difficulty they dragged her away from him, all wet and bloody, and fastening a thirty-kilo slab of marble round his neck they sent him down to the bottom of the sea. Then they turned to the girl, deaf to her entreaties. She was very beautiful, just like Zühre Paşali, her breasts so warm … They stripped her naked and raped her, taking it in turns. Then, when they had finished, Selim fired a bullet into her head, making a dark, very dark hole out of which the blood spurted, and she too fell into the sea, and the sea frothed blood-red, and they pulled her out, tied a thirty-kilo block of marble round her neck and cast her down to the bottom of the sea … After this, Fisher Selim and Lame Hasan could not look each other in the face. For many years they did not speak to each other. Why, it’s only a couple of years ago that Ilya reconciled them in the Menekşe coffee-house! ‘What’s past is past,’ they said as they embraced. Why should they say such a thing if they had not killed Vasili? Yes, Fisher Selim must have gone to Lame Hasan and said, ‘Send that Zeynel to me, tell him I’m going to save him and then I’ll take him out to sea, shoot a hole through his head, he’ll leap into the sea, his blood gushing, I’ll tie a thirty-kilo marble block round his neck and send him to the bottom of the sea and well share his money between the two of us …’
The flutter of seagulls’ wings rose above the chugging of the motor. Zeynel moved nearer Selim and looked searchingly into his eyes. No, he thought, no, he is taking me to Vasili … Yet he began to inspect every corner of the boat, lifting the hatches of holds, feeling about in the bilges, until Selim noticed him.
‘What are you looking for, Zeynel?’
‘Nothing …,’ Zeynel said, confused. ‘I’m looking at the boat.’
‘It’s a good boat,’ Fisher Selim said. ‘They don’t build them like this nowadays, not even in Ayvansaray. It hasn’t leaked once in all these years.’
Hristo’s boat, Zeynel thought … I’ve still got my gun. I can shoot him before he does anything.
‘You’ve got a revolver, haven’t you, Uncle Selim? A big one. You could kill anyone with it, couldn’t you?’
‘I had one, yes, but I took it back to its owner the other day, to Blind Mustafa. What do I need a revolver for? I’ve got my hands.’ He raised his huge hands and Zeynel shivered.
If he grabs me with those hands, he could crush me … Once at my throat he’d strangle the life out of me, like he did to Bald Dursun. He squeezed and squeezed, and Bald Dursun’s eyes bulged, his tongue hung out, he turned purple and dropped dead. And Vasili too, he killed him like that …
‘What was he like, this Vasili, Uncle Selim? Was he big and strong like you?’
‘He was a huge brawny man, with arms twice as big as mine. Like oars they were. He never used the motor, but always rowed, and he went faster than any motorboat. After setting fire to that Greek notable’s house, he tried to strangle him and it was all I could do to loosen his grip. He was a brave man, Vasili, a good friend …’
So Vasili existed, was alive … A huge strong man, he would never have let himself be killed.
‘Did Vasili have a revolver?’
‘Of course! Would such a young daredevil ever go without! In fact, he always carried two. I don’t like revolvers, I never carried one.’
So Vasili had a revolver! A wave of relief swept over Zeynel.
It was past noon. The boat was chugging along with perfect regularity, like clockwork. The seagulls were still fluttering overhead and white clouds flowed eastwards, their shadows dappling the smooth surface of the sea.
Fisher Selim stalled the motor. ‘I’m hungry, little Zeynel,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a bite. It’s long past noon.’ Quickly, he opened the forehold and took out the nylon cloth with its pink roses, spread it out and put some halva, cheese and olives on it. Then he filled the mugs with water. ‘Here you are, my agha. Come on, let’s eat.’ Suddenly he caught sight of Zeynel’s eyes and stopped in shocked surprise. ‘What’s the matter, Zeynel?’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid, there’s no danger at all. You’ll see how we’ll slip through Çanakkale Strait, easy as butter. You leave that to me. Besides, who would recognize you? The newspapers all printed someone else’s photo instead of yours. Nothing’s going to happen, please God. Come, eat your meal and don’t be afraid. I’ll take you safe and sound to Vasili.’
Never taking his eyes off Fisher Selim, Zeynel fell to eating as though he was not aware of what his hands were doing. Wild thoughts rushed through his head and would not be swept aside.
I was going to kill him … I set fire to his house … How can he have forgotten? They’ve laid this trap for me, he and Lame Hasan, and I’ve gone and fallen into it, fool that I am! Idiot …
Blindly, he gulped down great draughts of water and swallowed the bread, olives, cheese and halva until nothing was left on the table. He never even noticed Selim shaking out the tablecloth over the s
ide of the boat and folding it away in the hold. One single thought held his mind: how to escape from the trap.
Fisher Selim was at the tiller now and the boat on its way, seagulls hovering up and down overhead. Smiling, he turned to say something to Zeynel and the smile froze on his face. ‘What’s come over you, Zeynel?’ he shouted.
Zeynel sprang to the suitcase and dragged it to Selim’s feet. ‘Take it, it’s all yours,’ he panted. ‘Don’t kill me, don’t strangle me … like Vasili, like Skipper Dursun, like Hristo … Don’t kill me, don’t, don’t, don’t!’ He clung to Selim’s arm, trembling like a leaf.
Selim slowed down the motor and began to reason with Zeynel. Why should he kill him? If he’d wanted to, he could have done it the night he set fire to his house or even last night as he slept. He could have trussed him up and turned him over to the police when he’d killed Ihsan … All right, he’d burnt down his house, but Selim understood how things were. So why should he kill Zeynel now? Right through the afternoon, Selim talked, while the boat drifted slowly on. ‘You know how I like you. I always have … That’s why I’ve taken the risk of smuggling you out of Turkey to the Greek Islands.’
‘You mean you’re not taking me out to sea to kill me?’ Zeynel said at last.
‘Are you mad? Why should I kill you, my child?’
Zeynel burst out laughing and threw himself on to the after deck. ‘Hurray!’ he cried. ‘No one’s going to kill me, not the police, not anyone! Step on the gas, Uncle Selim, step on it … I’ll bring you back a Mercedes from Germany. Quick, let’s get through the Çanakkale Strait as soon as possible. Quick …’ And he broke into a merry Istanbul song. He followed this with a Laz shanty, then a Çorum dancing song. What a lovely voice he has, the little rascal, Selim thought. But how frightened he was only a moment ago … Crazed with fear. I must take care tonight. He’s capable of throwing himself into the water or even of killing me …
And then, in the middle of the song, Zeynel broke off, his eyes riveted on Selim’s hands. He could feel them round his neck. That’s how it had been with Vasili, with such blandishments had they beguiled him, Lame Hasan and Fisher Selim, catching him unawares, strangling him and throwing his body into the sea, taking his money, and the Greek notable’s daughter …
The silence was lasting too long for Selim’s comfort. He had to make Zeynel talk to distract him.
‘Zeynel,’ he said, forcing a laugh. Zeynel gave a start. ‘Tell me, it wasn’t true, was it, that you killed that woman at Beşiktaş?’
Zeynel’s terror knew no bounds now. He seized on this chance. ‘I did, I did!’ he said quickly. ‘She was my mistress, I took her to an empty kiosk at Ihlamur Palace … I mean, we always met there. And then one day I caught her with someone else … “So you’d do this to me, to Zeynel Çelik,” I said. First I slashed her breasts …’ Word for word he repeated the story he had read in the newspapers.
Aghast, open-mouthed, Fisher Selim listened with mounting fear. I must take that gun away from him, he thought. But how to do it without driving the lad still crazier?
‘What about the Bebek murder?’
‘I followed them. I knew those people from Florya. Very rich they were. I waited in front of their villa. And then when their car arrived I ran to open the door. The man laughed and gave me a twenty-lira tip. As they were going into the house, I ran after them, closed the door and quickly drew my gun. He leapt at me, a man twice your size, with hands twice as large as yours, he knocked my gun out of my hand. So I went for his throat and squeezed and squeezed. His wife was running madly about the room, beating her knees with her fists. I squeezed and squeezed. Twice your size he was, young too, his hands huge, yours are like a child’s beside them. And then he went limp. He was dead. I picked up my gun …’ On and on he rattled, working himself up into a fever, adding tenfold to the stories he had read in the papers.
‘And the policemen?’
Zeynel’s head was whirling as he reeled off tales of the men he had strangled, all men with prodigious hands who had not even been able to lift them against him. ‘Like vices they are, my hands, like vices,’ he repeated, waving them in front of Selim’s face.
‘And the bank?’
‘The bank? There was a guard posted there, twice as big as you, your hands are like a baby’s beside his …’ Zeynel no longer knew what he was saying. His mouth was dry, but he never thought to drink. A dark night was closing upon him, dynamite exploded in the mountains, shots rang out, bombs were thrown, red-winged eagles fluttered in the night sky, fat quails with fearful swivelling eyes were falling, endlessly falling in the pouring rain, his father and mother were lying there butchered, his brothers and sisters too, all steeped in blood. Water flowed like frothing blood, blue, red … Vasili was pleading, ‘Don’t kill me, don’t, Selim …’
‘I hid my money beneath the old walls, in a little vault near the big gate, in the graveyard, and there … A man, twice as big as you … I jumped at his throat. “What are you doing here, near my money?” His hands, huge …’
Huge hands wide open, seagulls, policemen, flames, buffaloes, eagles, a head stuck in a porthole, eyes bulging, the rest of the man burning in the ship, shattering windows, policemen firing away all over Taksim Square, strange beasts with huge hands, bellowing as they pitched over on the asphalt …
‘The man seized my throat. And I … I … My gun …’
Fisher Selim was on his guard. He wheeled round throwing himself down at the same instant. The exploding bullet only just missed him. Swiftly, he grabbed Zeynel’s wrist and twisted the gun out of his hand.
‘Shame on you, foolish boy!’ he laughed. ‘You might have killed me.’
Shoving the gun into his inside pocket, he revved up the motor. He was very angry, but tried not to show it.
Zeynel remained sitting at the back of the boat, broken images darting through his mind, crumbs of memories, vague details, and inside him a strange urgent expectancy. His eyes were fixed on the setting sun. It was a fiery red. In a moment, it would take on a purple hue and the aeroplanes gliding out of purple clouds would glitter like drops of gold, leaving white shimmering trails in their wake. But Zeynel saw nothing, heard nothing.
The sun was nearly gone, half of it sunk beneath the sea, the other half streaked by a purple cloud. The shadows were lengthening over the darkening waters.
Suddenly, Zeynel threw himself at Selim and locked his hands around his throat. The tiller shot to the right and the boat began to pivot on itself. Overhead, seagulls dipped, screeching, and rose again. Selim, gasping for breath, grabbed Zeynel’s arms and struggled to free himself, but found it impossible to shake off his grip. He pitched and plunged, dashing Zeynel this way and that; the boat rocked dangerously, but still Selim could not free himself. He was suffocating, dying, when his fingers closed round Zeynel’s throat and tightened with all the strength of his powerful fisherman’s hands. Still he could not shake off the throttling grip. Frantic, he squeezed and tossed, until he felt Zeynel’s hand loosen, his body grow limp. Slowly he let go and Zeynel sank to the floor.
In a daze, Selim could only stand there in the wheeling boat, his arms dangling at his sides. After a while, recovering a little, he bent over and took Zeynel’s wrist. Zeynel’s body was already growing cold. He reached out to his eyes and closed them.
The sun had set, leaving a red-streaked purple glow over sea and sky.
23
Fisher Selim hardly ever went out of his house now. People wondered when and where he bought bread and food. In his boat, moored under the beach bridge, the nets, fishing lines and floats lay scattered in utter confusion and sparrows and seagulls kept pecking at the breadcrumbs strewn all over the deck. It was an unbelievable sight.
At last, one day, Fisher Selim was seen making down to the sea. Without lifting his head to look at anyone, he began to tidy his boat. All day long he pottered about, his face sombre, the wrinkles deeper, darker, his head held low, and as evening fell he crept back home, stil
l with that air of being ashamed to show himself.
Always alone, he roamed along the Florya lanes and in and out of the ramshackle Red Crescent summer camping huts, jerry-built out of packing cases, chipboard and plywood, and painted a thousand and one gay colours, and if anyone so much as approached him he shrank away, averting his eyes.
Once or twice at that time, I came across him too. He hesitated on seeing me, then quickly walked off in the opposite direction. And once I ran into him in Beyoğlu, but he made himself scarce in the crowd. A couple of times, long after midnight, I saw him standing outside my house, looking intently at my window.
His eyes were like a timid, frightened child’s now. He had grown thin and pale and his bushy moustache drooped limply. Sometimes he went for days on end without shaving, which he had never done before, and he always wore a red kerchief tied round his shrivelled neck.