The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  24

  Dursun Kemal took Ahmet to Beyoğlu and the two boys bought shoes, clothes, shirts, underwear and even coats. They had such a lot of money … Dursun Kemal confided to Ahmet how he came to have all this cash. Even if they spent it all, Zeynel Abi would give them some more. True, Dursun Kemal had lost track of him for the time being, but he would soon find him again because he knew all Zeynel’s haunts. The two boys also bought a racing bicycle each from the Armenian at Yüksekkaldirim who sold them cheap. And one night, with Ahmet at his heels, Dursun Kemal slunk ferret-like into his house. There was no sign of his father, and for several days now the boys had been sleeping with a roof over their heads. They crept in late at night, when nobody was about, and left again in the early morning. Yet the neighbours must have got wind of their coming and going, for often one or another would leave some food on the marble table in front of the door.

  Ever since the murder, Dursun Kemal’s father had not set foot in the house. This Dursun Kemal learnt from Gypsy Hüsam, whom he came across one night, drunk as a newt. Reeling, hollow-cheeked, the gypsy buttonholed him in the street and rattled on and on about Zühre Paşali. It was not Zeynel, but Dursun Kemal’s father who had killed her. All the neighbours knew it, but they were godless wretches, every one of them, inhuman, lying in the face of God just because they had been jealous of Zühre, jealous of her beauty, her firm breasts, her voluptuous hips, of the photo of the pasha whose daughter she was … Zühre’s father had not been one of your fake pashas, but a real genuine one with a kilo of gold epaulettes on each shoulder … Swaying dangerously under the lamplight, his arms flailing, pulling at his hair, the drunken gypsy would have gone on for ever if Dursun Kemal and Ahmet had not made good their escape.

  So they went on living in the house, bolting the door securely and ready to escape through the back window should Dursun Kemal’s father chance to turn up. Their bicycles were safe too, hidden at the back of the house among the bramble bushes.

  One night, they retrieved the police guns and cartridge belts from the cache at the Valide Mosque. Dursun Kemal emptied the cartridges like peanuts into his pockets and threw away the belts as he had seen Zeynel do. Ahmet imitated him. Their coats were large and reached down to their ankles, so nobody could have detected the guns strapped to their shoulders. Though heavy and uncomfortable to carry around, these guns gave them a proud satisfaction. Every day, Dursun Kemal bought the papers and read about Zeynel Çelik’s adventures. It was like watching a police movie. Ahmet was barely literate, so Dursun Kemal read everything out to him. Ahmet listened, looking at the pictures of the gangster with his gun, his huge bushy moustache, his eyes glaring as though ready to devour someone, and felt a mounting fear which he was careful to hide from Dursun Kemal. He heartily hoped they would never come across him and, on the sly, he did everything he could to discourage Dursun Kemal from his search. But nothing could shake Dursun Kemal’s determination to find Zeynel.

  So they scoured the city on their bicycles, sometimes taking a boat or a bus if the place they were going to was a distant one, and Dursun Kemal never lost hope. He was sure he would find Zeynel one day, since it was plain that the police had neither killed nor caught him.

  They felt at an advantage over other people, an easy superior confidence.

  ‘Have you heard of Zeynel Çelik?’

  ‘I have, so what?’

  ‘What d’you mean, so what! Zeynel Çelik’s my big brother.’

  ‘Ha, ha …’

  ‘And when he hears how you’ve treated us …’

  ‘He’ll cut off your ears!’

  That was their stance whenever they found themselves in a tight spot. People would rue the day they had ever tackled these two little urchins. If anyone resisted, the boys would hurl stones and abuse at them. Should they meet with a tough customer who was not to be intimidated by either stones or the name of Zeynel Çelik, they would take to their heels, their overcoats tangling about their legs.

  Sometimes they went to fish on the bridge. They were careful with their money now, and when they caught a lot of fish they set aside a portion for their meal and sold the rest. Dursun Kemal would often worry about Ahmet, reproaching himself for dragging the boy along on this thankless quest all over Istanbul. Just let him once get hold of that Zeynel! He’d have a few words to say to him! And then he would give up this vagrant life. Why shouldn’t he take Ahmet to his old master, the cloth-printer? Several times he had made Ahmet draw something in the sand, and once on paper with crayons, and found the child had quite a gift for it. It wasn’t as if Dursun Kemal had only himself to fend for now. He had to take care of Ahmet as well. He could not abandon him like this on the streets …

  But what if the Master had heard of his adventures with the gangster Zeynel Çelik? And surely he must have. It was uncanny how he saw and knew everything. He was Master Adem, the noted cloth-printer from Bursa! He would never say anything to Dursun Kemal, only look at him, his warm loving eyes a little hurt, and how could Dursun Kemal resist that gaze, as crushing as a hundred-ton press? Ah, but how he longed to see his master again, to kiss his hand, to introduce Ahmet to him, to say ‘This is my brother Ahmet …’

  The belle of Sariyer district had been found dead in the forest of Sultansuyu, shot through the neck. That murderous gangster, Zeynel Çelik, had tried to rape her and, when she resisted, he had shot her and, according to his custom, had slashed her breasts and genital organs. The post-mortem indicated that the brute had raped her afterwards … The newspapers printed a whole lot of new photos, of Zeynel Çelik’s youth this time, as a child, as a young man, always with a large gun at his waist …

  Zeynel Çelik’s new murder … It was in Baglarbaşi, near Üsküdar, that this ferocious killer had struck this time. A widow, living all alone … He had killed her for her money, and raped her too …

  His next field of action was the Bosphorus. There he set fire to the oldest historic mansion, that of Canfedazade Zülfü Pasha, and by the time the fire brigade got to the scene it was burnt to the ground, with a descendant of the old family, the Lady Gülfeza, in it, and also a great number of valuable pictures and furniture.

  The whole of Istanbul was living in fear of being attacked by this fiend, this bloodthirsty gangster …

  Menekşe itself was all in a dither, especially after Fisher Selim had been shot like that, in broad daylight at sea … Zeynel Çelik had sent word to the hospital. Whatever you do, even if you hide him in a serpent’s nest, under a bird’s wing, I shall run that Fisher Selim down and kill him. You can surround the hospital with a whole regiment of soldiers and police, I’ll still get him in the end … It was said that a strong guard had been posted outside Fisher Selim’s room at the hospital.

  ‘Who’d have thought it of that humble lad?’

  ‘He and his gang have got all of Beyoğlu paying protection money to them.’

  ‘That Sariyer belle, she was a real beauty …’

  ‘I was sorry for the crippled woman.’

  ‘If only Zeynel had got her out before setting fire to the house …’

  ‘Now, how could he have known where to find her in that enormous mansion?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Have you ever been in one of those Bosphorus mansions?’

  ‘You could put the whole of Menekşe into one and we’d still get lost, that’s how huge they are!’

  ‘Why should Zeynel want to burn that mansion, I wonder?’

  ‘He was paid to do it.’

  ‘But by whom?’

  ‘The present owners, of course! “Zeynel,” they said, “get rid of that house for us, together with the cripple in it …” Because the crippled woman had the greatest share in the property and refused to let it be sold.’

  ‘So Zeynel poured some petrol and set a match to it …’

  ‘And when the fire brigade arrived he blasted away at them with his machine-gun.’

  ‘Who would have expected this of that dumb snivelling lad?’

>   ‘Hush, the walls have ears …’

  According to information given out by the police, Zeynel Çelik’s dossier at the Security Department is swelling rapidly. The gangster’s favourite victims are millionaires and beautiful women. His latest is the rich ship-owner Osman Mozikoğlu, whom he shot down in his Mercedes in the middle of Karaköy Avenue. As the gangster was making his getaway, the police caught up with him near Tophane Fountain, but after a long exchange of shots he managed to give them the slip, leaving three wounded policemen behind him.

  The police are hot on the trail of the gangster who, only the other day, for no reason at all, made a raid on the Beyoğlu police station, wounding the chief officer … The Criminal Bureau detectives, having received information that Zeynel Çelik was staying in a flat in Karagümrük, swiftly moved in, but unexpectedly met with a shower of stones from the poor folk of the district. The policemen, wounded as they were by this rain of stones, streaming with blood, still managed to surround the gangster, but again he broke out of the circle and escaped. Two hundred and forty-seven persons were taken into custody and charged with assaulting the police with stones, sticks and even guns in order to help the killer. It is not known what this bloodthirsty cut-throat may do next, especially as he is being hidden and protected by the poorer sections of the populace. The entire police force has been put on a state of alert and the people of Istanbul are required to be on their guard against this ferociously dangerous killer, a sex maniac into the bargain. Attention, you may be face to face with death any moment! Yesterday too the body of a young girl was washed ashore on the rocks between Fenerbahçe and Kalamiş. The girl had been strangled and is believed to be yet another of Zeynel Çelik’s victims.

  Istanbul was living in dread. People talked of nothing but the homicidal gangster Zeynel Çelik and refrained from leaving their homes after dark except for the most urgent emergency, for it was especially at night that Zeynel Çelik rampaged through the city, dealing out ruin and destruction. It was believed that this cruel cut-throat not only enjoyed the support of the poorer sections of the populace, but also had the backing of a secret extreme leftist faction …

  Then one day a telephone call from the Security Department to the editors of the Istanbul newspapers imparted a very secret, very important piece of news. The police had definitely ascertained the gangster Zeynel Çelik’s lair and were launching a large-scale operation that very day. Would they send their reporters and photographers to the scene? They need have no doubts. This time the gangster would not escape. Steel-vested police, equipped with long-range guns, would also use tear-gas and smoke bombs. This time, the police would take their revenge on this elusive criminal who had stripped their comrades naked, wounded them, killed them. Angry and vengeful, they were resolved to finish off the business once and for all. They would open fire with no forewarning, because it was in that split second the gangster had always made his getaway.

  In the afternoon, laughing and joking, the police and the journalists set out in an impressive procession for Unkapani, to a new three-storeyed apartment building in a narrow street in front of the Cibali cigarette factory. The place, and indeed the whole neighbourhood, had been surrounded by an unlimited number of police and all the streets leading to it were being held under the closest surveillance. Not a bird was allowed to fly past. The journalists were installed on the top floor of a building across the little street. From there they would have a good view of the whole proceedings and take plenty of photographs too.

  The small low-circulation afternoon papers had brought out an early edition and newsboys were rushing down the Cağaloğlu slope, waving the papers and shouting shrilly … News! Read the news! Read about the gangster Zeynel Çelik! Read about the battle just now starting between the police and the gangsters … Will Zeynel Çelik break out of the police cordon? Read about the special police force and their steel vests … News, fresh news about Zeynel Çelik!

  Dursun Kemal and Ahmet snatched a paper from one of the newsboys and without losing a minute jumped into a dolmuş for Unkapani, burning with excitement.

  ‘What’s up with you boys?’ the driver asked curiously.

  ‘They’ve surrounded him,’ Dursun Kemal panted.

  ‘They’ve cornered him,’ Ahmet gasped.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Look, it’s in the paper.’ Dursun Kemal showed him the paper. ‘Zeynel Çelik.’

  ‘He’s our big brother,’ Ahmet chimed in.

  ‘Please take us a little nearer to the Cibali cigarette factory.’

  ‘What about the fare, then?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Dursun Kemal said.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of money,’ Ahmet said. ‘Our Zeynel Abi …’ Dursun Kemal quickly closed his mouth.

  They got out in front of the Cibali cigarette factory. A policeman was hurrying by, his hand on the revolver that bobbed on his buttocks. They fell in after him.

  ‘Zeynel Abi’ll be all right, won’t he?’ Ahmet whispered.

  ‘Please God, he’ll send them all packing,’ Dursun Kemal assured him.

  A wide-spreading plane tree stood on the right of the beleaguered apartment building. As they approached, the policeman threw himself down, drawing his revolver, and at that moment came a burst of fire from right and left. After a while, the crackle of firearms stopped and steel-vested police with automatics charged into the building. A fresh burst of fire inside, soon over, and then the street was aswarm with police and journalists.

  Two steel-vested policemen emerged from the building, holding the gangster’s body by the arms. He was bleeding profusely. They dragged him along, his head banging on the pavement, and threw him on to the weatherworn cobblestones under the plane tree.

  ‘Stand back, stand back!’ Policemen were hitting out at the crowd with their batons, while the journalists’ flashlights went on and off. ‘Stand back …’

  Beside the long body of the gangster was a tiny 6.35 revolver. His head was shaved bare and his three-cornered eyes had remained open. His long yellow face seemed to be smiling under the clotted blood.

  The two boys were crouching on the ground behind the policeman when they heard the word passed around: ‘They’ve finished him off!’ Bursting into tears, they crept off and sank down against a wall, while people surged around the body under the plane tree and the clamour grew to such proportions that it could be heard from way off on Unkapani Bridge.

  ‘Aaah,’ Dursun Kemal mourned, ‘they’ve killed my Zeynel Abi! What shall I do now?’

  ‘Aaah,’ Ahmet cried sharing his grief wholeheartedly, ‘what shall we do now?’

  They sat there at the foot of the wall, clinging to each other, until the crowd began to thin out. They were quite numb and their eyes were red with tears when they rose at last and with timid steps approached the body under the plane tree.

  Suddenly, Dursun Kemal’s eyes widened. He bent over the body and stared, his face gradually clearing.

  ‘But this isn’t him!’ he cried, turning to Ahmet. ‘It isn’t, I swear it isn’t. This man isn’t Zeynel Abi, it isn’t even the other Zeynel, the one in the photographs. This man isn’t anyone at all. Hurray!’

  The two boys retreated to the front of a shop with closed shutters and burst out laughing. Clapping their hands, bending double, they rushed back and forth to the body, staring gleefully at it, holding their sides and shrieking with laughter. And the bystanders gazed in amazement at the sight of these two small boys shaken by gales of laughter beside the body of the dead gangster.

  25

  One rainy morning, Fisher Selim came stumbling back to Menekşe. He was distraught, in a piteous state. Like a sleepwalker, he groped his way through the little square in front of the coffee-house and went down to the edge of the sea, wending his way in and out of the boats drawn up on the shore. His wound was bleeding and the bandages were stained with blood.

  The rain was gathering strength, denting the surface of the sea. In front of the coffee-house a crowd
had collected.

  ‘He’s bleeding,’ Özkan said.

  ‘He’s really become strange, this man,’ Ibo Efendi commented. ‘He must be in some kind of trouble.’

  ‘He’s in a bad way,’ Ilya said.

  ‘Bleeding like an ox,’ Muharrem said.

  ‘Let’s get him to drink some tea,’ Skipper Nuri suggested.

  ‘Let me see you make that madman sit down!’ Laz Ekrem exclaimed.

  ‘Look at him going round and round in this rain!’

  ‘He’s gone crazy!’

  ‘And look, folks, he’s got his pyjamas on!’

  ‘He must have escaped from the hospital …’

  ‘He’s not himself.’

  ‘If only he could be made to drink some hot tea …’

  ‘Fisher Selim! Come on in. Sit down and have some tea.’

  ‘Piping hot …’

  ‘Your wound’s bleeding.’

  ‘Look, it’s raining …’

  The wet pyjamas clung to his body, which was nothing but skin and bones now. His feet were bare, his tangled hair stuck to his neck and forehead, and his Adam’s apple jutted out like a fist.

  The northeaster was blasting away, lashing at the sea and tearing the leaves from the trees.

  Then a car stopped in the square and Emin Efendi leaped out. He rushed to Fisher Selim and grabbed his arm. ‘Stop,’ he cried, ‘you’ll die, you’ll die!’ But Fisher Selim pushed on, dragging him along. ‘Stop, you’ll die, you’re losing blood …’ There was no stopping him. ‘Help me,’ Emin Efendi called to the others. ‘We’ve got to get him inside. He ran away from the hospital. Quick, or he’ll bleed to death.’ Some men ran up, but Selim shook them off and walked straight into the sea.