The Sea-Crossed Fisherman

by Yashar Kemal

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t you know me, Selim? I’m Mahmut … Stop! You should see the ship Halim Bey Veziroğlu’s bought from Europe! Not just one … Five, ten … Not ships, each one a factory that swallows up the sea, dries up its marrow …’

  All equipped with radar they are, these ships, like so many eyes raking the bottom of the sea … Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! Each radar is as powerful as a thousand human eyes, a million eyes, unerringly picking out the fish wherever they may be, in whatever sheltered nook, at whatever depth. Black clouds of fish are beating about the sea with millions of eyes upon them, green, razor-sharp … Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! They spread their vast nets and the fish are caught up in thousands, sucked into the ship on one side, pushed out in cans on the other, glossy coloured cans with the picture of a fish on each one. They are swallowing up all the fish in the sea, these ships, and vomiting mounds and mounds of tin cans on to the shore … And trucks and trains and boats stand by to carry the canned fish to the far comers of the world. Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! The seas are empty! Empty, drained, killed by the thousand-eyed cannery ships … Stop, Fisher Selim, stop!

  ‘What d’you want, Mahmut?’

  ‘Halim Bey Veziroğlu is looking for you. Only our own fishermen know the ins and outs of these seas, he said, where the fish nest and breed and congregate. And Fisher Selim better than anyone …’

  Not for nothing has Halim Bey Veziroğlu acquired all these ships. Not for nothing has he bought all those palaces in France and Italy … Not for nothing do the moneybags of this earth, the arms magnates, the captains of industry, the drug-traffickers, come to visit him in their private aeroplanes … Halim Bey Veziroğlu, too, has a private plane. He boards it in the morning and one hour later he is with Onassis on Scorpion Island, that Onassis who comes from our own Manisa town, whose name is Aristoteles, a man so rich he could marry the wife of the President of the United States, and so he did. He loves backgammon, Onassis, and so the two of them play a couple of games and then sit down to whisky and business. The other plutocrats of the world also come to Scorpion Island. They watch the game of backgammon and talk about the affairs of mankind, sipping a glass of whisky. They are both of Anatolian stock, these two, Halim Bey Veziroğlu and Onassis. Both playing mischief with the world … Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! Stop and give it a thought. They can starve the peoples of this earth, those two, if they want, hoarding everything for themselves, or they can shower bounty on everyone. Two people rule this world, both born in Anatolia, poor and needy, broken on the wheel of fortune, starting from scratch, and now spreading their branches over the whole earth.

  ‘Veziroğlu wants you.’

  ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Not go to Veziroğlu? Why, his men will find you and take you to him even if you were the dragon of the sea!’

  ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Not go! Why, the Shah of Iran, the King of Saudi Arabia, even the President of the United States come to his feet! Even our own Vehbi Koç does so. Let’s see you not go!’

  Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! A long boundless plain, stretching far and wide under the sea, the colour of copper … The sun has stopped in the west, half in the sky, half under the sea, drowning the water in its copper glow, and planes and ships and trains are floating through the rose-purple orb. And millions of fish are snatching up the green-glinting radar eyes and darting away in swift flashes of green, vanishing in the copper radiance. They are all swallowing the fish-hooks, the millions of fish-hooks that hang in the water … Green eyes, fishing lines, fish whirling on the boundless plain at the bottom of the copper sea, all in a coruscating mass … Halim Bey Veziroğlu is at the bottom of the sea, in the Hilton Hotel, with eight yellow-haired girls …

  ‘It wasn’t her! She wasn’t the girl with the flaxen hair … I swear it, she wasn’t the one.’

  One of those yellow-haired girls … Is it possible …? Her yellow hair streaming down her back, all a-shimmer, there at the bottom of the sea … It’s that fish, that one … That dolphin, that one … That dolphin is the girl with the flaxen hair. And Halim Bey Veziroğlu is playing backgammon with the fish, with the girl with the flaxen hair … And all around them the fish of the sea are weeping. Weeping also are the girls with flaxen hair.

  The sea is cluttered with the dead bodies of men and dogs and cats and fish. Boats cannot force a passage. Forward, Veziroğlu, forward! He is at the head of them all, his men, the black-clad ones, there in Eminönü Square, and with machine-guns they strafe the sea, the buses, the minarets, the fish and dolphins, the cats and dogs. Eminönü Square is up in flames and the deafening crackle of machine-gun fire resounds all over Istanbul, from the mosques and bridges, from Leander’s Tower, from Galata Tower. And Veziroğlu issues more orders to the black-clad ones and they open fire on men and women and children. Some leap high in the air with a long shriek and fall back bleeding on to the pavement, others drop down, their backs arched like a bow, spinning like millstones, their blood spurting over the steps of Valide Mosque …

  First came the fish, all the fish that had swallowed the hooks and the radar eyes. They came and massed upon the shore, shedding a radiance over earth and sky. Then the cats and dogs, the dolphins and the people appeared, all streaming with blood, and formed a wide circle round the black-clad men. Narrower and narrower grew the circle and the black-clad men retreated, still firing their machine-guns, and huddled at the foot of Valide Mosque, their eyes bulging with fear, trembling, rattling … Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! The crowd is closing in, trampling over the black-clad men, pressing them like grapes. Furiously, the people crush and pound. And suddenly they draw back and there is not a trace of the black-clad men. Only a few scattered, broken machine-guns …

  ‘You must go, Fisher Selim,’ the Menekşe fishermen insisted. ‘We shall all have to work on Veziroğlu’s cannery ships. Haven’t you heard? We’re being displaced. The Municipality’s going to build a sewage plant here, on Çekmece Stream. If not tomorrow, then the day after, bulldozers will be sent in and will raze our houses to the ground. It’s all decided.’

  ‘If Veziroğlu takes us on, we can make a good living. But if we don’t go, he’ll get fishermen from Greece and Italy.’

  ‘We have no choice but to work for Veziroğlu.’

  ‘Come on, Fisher Selim …’

  ‘Your eyes can fathom the depths of the sea even better than that radar.’

  ‘That’s what Veziroğlu says.’

  ‘“I can’t do without Fisher Selim,” he says …’

  ‘Come on, Fisher Selim. Today’s the day. Pull yourself together.’

  ‘Just do this one more thing for us.’

  ‘There’s no choice for us but to work for Veziroğlu.’

  ‘And he pays well, too.’

  ‘He’s got all those commandos at his beck and call, the black-clad commandos.’

  ‘We have no choice.’

  ‘Don’t let us down.’

  ‘You’ll be the foremost skipper on these seas.’

  ‘Instead of wasting our lives on these ramshackle boats, catching hardly enough fish to keep us alive, we’ll be working comfortably in those cannery ships.’

  ‘All snug and warm … No freezing in the winter or burning in the summer …’

  ‘Spick and span they are, those ships.’

  ‘Each one a huge canning factory …’

  ‘I saw one in Russia. There were even doctors in it for the fishermen who fell sick, and beautiful nurses with white blouses and yellow hair.’

  ‘Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! It’s me Mahmut. Where are you going?’

  Bulldozers are rumbling into Menekşe along the little stream that flows from the lake into the sea, demolishing houses, raising clouds of dust and smoke. Women are weeping, their hands beating their breasts …

  Blind Mustafa’s wife met him at the gate with long agonizing screams. The two white-coated servants standing rigid in attendance had a sneer on their faces.

  ‘Mustaf
a’s dead, Fisher Selim! Dead, my Mustafa …’ She clutched at him, weeping.

  The house was silent, desolate. Mustafa lay in a huge gold-plated bed spread with white cambric sheets, his hands folded over his chest, his wrinkled face elongated, dark yellow. His blind left eye had sunk into its socket, leaving a dark hole. The other eye was closed and bulging out like an apple.

  ‘He’s dead, my Mustafa, dead …’

  A bright-red cravat was tied about his neck and a red handkerchief thrust into the breast pocket of his navy-blue suit.

  ‘There he lies, alone, forsaken, my Mustafa,’ she was keening. ‘Far from his kith and kin, his people, his land …’

  All in the splendour of this palatial house, the wealth, the gold, the crystal … All his factories, all his sons, their wives, his grandchildren, where were they? Friendless, alone … In a desert he lies, my Mustafa … Eagles and vultures screeching above … Back there in the old homeland, ah, that we were there! All the village would be mourning for my Mustafa. The keening women would crowd into the house with long wailing cries. Death is difficult in Istanbul. All alone …

  ‘Not even his sons have come, not even his grandchildren. Three days I’ve been waiting here, Fisher Selim, alone. All alone with my dead Mustafa. This death is worse than death. If his people back home had heard, they’d have come all the way from the far end of Anatolia to my Mustafa’s deathbed …’

  There he lies, his signet ring still on his finger, his white hair falling over his brow, tired, his lips curled in anger, bitter against the world, against death, this lonely death. He gave his all to his sons. Three days his dead body has been waiting for them to come. Telegrams have been sent to Geneva. And still he is waiting. How can a corpse wait? It is already starting to smell. The smell rises above the scent of the cologne sprinkled over him, over the whole house.

  ‘Let it wait, my dead Mustafa’s corpse …’

  In Geneva, that’s where they are. That’s where they spend the summer, Mustafa’s sons, their wives, their children. And now their summer is spoilt. Was this a time to die, Mustafa? Let him wait. Let the corpse wait …

  ‘This revolver, pure gold, he left it to you, Fisher Selim. I cannot even keen over him. I’m ashamed to, here in Istanbul. Without a single lament he is gone, my Mustafa … Would that we had never come here, would that we had died of hunger in our barren village, our home! Ah, Fisher Selim, my good friend …’

  A red eagle was circling over Yeşilköy. Seagulls perched in a long white row on the garden wall of the villa.

  In his well-pressed trousers, the many rings glinting on his fingers, the pouches under his eyes sagging, Halim Bey Veziroğlu paced up and down his brightly lit office with the morocco leather armchairs.

  ‘Do you accept, then, Fisher Selim?’ Sure of himself, used to giving orders … ‘You fisher people are being thrown out of Menekşe. We’re going to build a large tourist hotel there. Why, the place is a natural paradise! How could we possibly leave it to a handful of shabby fishermen? I’m offering work, good jobs. So you won’t all die of hunger. Put Menekşe out of your mind.’

  He laughs and his paunch bounces up and down. People come in and out of the office, young girls … All of them bending in obeisance …

  ‘I always get what I want, Fisher Selim. You shall work in my ships. That land you wanted, it’s still yours. You can pay me back little by little …’

  His voice is echoing, echoing …

  ‘Stop, Fisher Selim, stop! You can’t do this! He’s our benefactor. He’s our livelihood now.’ Clinging to Selim, Mahmut is pleading with him. ‘Stop, Selim, stop! They wouldn’t let you near him anyway. Veziroğlu’s got a hundred armed men around him, all crack shots. Have you lost your wits? Stop!’

  It was raining and ever since early morning Fisher Selim had been walking in the rain, his mind quite numb, his eyes on a tiny little bird that was darting up and down, twittering merrily in front of him, and when it alighted in the garden of his big house he followed it mechanically. Then his eyes widened. He opened the gate and went in, inspecting every flower and tree, passing on into the house. For a long time he remained there, gazing at every object as though to engrave it on his mind.

  Seagulls had settled on the sea, under the rain, rocking up and down with the waves. Below, the bulldozers were at work, scooping up the shanties and levelling the ground. The people of Menekşe were lined up, watching the destruction of their homes, as if it were a show. Fisher Selim loaded the gold-plated revolver and thrust it into his waistband.

  Two black-moustached mastodons were standing at the door, both clad in black, both dour-faced, like people who had forgotten how to smile.

  ‘I want to see Halim Bey Veziroğlu.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a fisherman.’

  The large garden gate of the mansion opened on to a road that led to a mosque. Wide-spreading branches of ancient pines, planes and lindens overhung the waters of the Bosphorus. A path paved with coloured cobblestones set in flowery designs and planted on both sides with flaming scarlet sage went up to the mansion, which was a rambling two-storeyed edifice, painted a purplish brown and occupying the whole of the little bay.

  ‘It’s only a fisherman wants to speak with the Bey …’

  Halim Bey Veziroğlu had seen Fisher Selim from the window. He hesitated, then called out: ‘Send him in.’

  He was seated at a wide table on which was a large portrait in a gold frame.

  ‘Stop, Fisher Selim, stop!’

  Fisher Selim pulled out the revolver Blind Mustafa had bequeathed him and, coolly, without a quiver, pulled the trigger. There was no surprise on Halim Bey Veziroğlu’s face when he saw the revolver, not even fear. It remained impassive. Three times Fisher Selim fired and Veziroğlu slipped silently from his chair to the floor.

  As darkness fell, Fisher Selim was still crouched in the arched boathouse under the mansion, listening to the tumult above. It was long past midnight when he emerged from his hiding-place. The mansion was quiet now, there was nobody about, not even at the gate, and he walked out quite easily. The police must be scouring all Istanbul now, he thought, and smiled. But who knew the ins and outs of this city as he did? Towards morning, he was in Menekşe. Mahmut was sitting in his boat, waiting for him.

  ‘Stop, Fisher Selim, stop!’ he said. ‘You’ve ruined us all, you’ve done for Menekşe. Look, the whole place is crawling with police, look!’

  The sea had not yet paled. There was no sound on the shore. Fisher Selim started the engine.

  ‘Get off,’ he said to Mahmut. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Mahmut. ‘I’m coming with you. I can’t let you go alone like this.’

  ‘Get off,’ Selim said again.

  Mahmut did not move.

  Selim drew his gun. ‘Out,’ he said. ‘Get out! You’ve got a family to take care of. If you want to do something for me, put the police off my track.’

  Mahmut rose and jumped ashore.

  Fisher Selim revved up the motor.

  As day was breaking, he reached Hayirsiz Island and stopped a mile off the rocky coast. The sea was smooth and calm, but black clouds were churning in the sky. Soon thunder was booming and flashes of lightning splitting through the clouds, one after another. A thunderbolt struck the rocks and split into four fragments that streaked round the coast, and for one brief instant the whole island rose into the sky, glistening darkly, and fell back into the sea.

  Fisher Selim stood at the stern of his boat, gazing with yearning at the purpling sea, the blazing flashes of lightning, the churning clouds. A warm rain wind caressed his face. The world about him appeared as never before, clear in its smallest detail, the fish and weeds, the bees and insects. In his blood he felt the slow roll of the sea with its millions of tons of water, he saw the billions of tiny sparks held in its every drop. Drained of all emotion, he stood motionless, a great rush in his ears, slowly letting himself be engulfed in a bottomless void.

&nb
sp; Suddenly, a miracle burst over the sea. Fisher Selim blinked, unable to believe what he saw. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. In the dawn light, in the brightness shed by the flashes of lightning, cleaving through the blueing, greening waves of the dawn sea and tracing sparkling blue circles as they leaped through the air, a school of dolphins was approaching his boat in a whirl of joy. It was years since Fisher Selim had seen dolphins in the Marmara Sea. His legs gave way and he knelt down where he was, on the after deck, trembling with emotion.

  The sun had risen behind the clouds, a huge rose-purple sun stood there over the sea, under the black canopy of clouds. Fisher Selim smiled. The sea, the sky, the clouds, the flashing lightning glowed, radiantly bright. He cast a glance towards Menekşe. The whole coast of Istanbul, with its domes and minarets, was drowned in a shimmering haze.

  ‘But what shall I do now, what?’ he murmured. Then he leaped to his feet in a tempest of joy.

  ‘It wasn’t her!’ he shouted. ‘She wasn’t the one … It couldn’t be. She wasn’t the one I’d been waiting for.’

  Nearer and nearer they came, the dolphins, hurrying towards him, leaping, gambolling, tracing wide sparkling arcs through the air.

  He looked about him and the world was clear and bright, the huge open sea blue, newly fresh, lit up from deep deep down by a soft light, blooming like a flower of joy.

  GLOSSARY

  Abi: big brother

  Abla: big sister

  Ayran: a drink made of watered yoghurt

  Börek: a kind of pastry with various fillings

  Buzuki: a Greek popular musical instrument

  Cacik: a salad made of yoghurt, chopped cucumber and garlic

  Dolmuş: a shared taxi

  Döner kebap: meat roasted on a revolving vertical spit