by Yashar Kemal
‘Good,’ Memidik said. He took a deep breath. ‘Nobody’ll see him here. I’ll come back later to bury him.’
Who was this man? How could he be so like Muhtar Sefer? Why hadn’t he uttered a word? Not a cry … He had simply toppled over like a rotten planetree. Where had he come from? Or was it really Sefer himself? A dead man can look very different from his living self. It must be Sefer!
Memidik swam over to the opposite bank and sat down, his clothes stuck to his body, steaming under the burning sun. A cold shudder shot through him. He looked across and saw the head swinging under the long overhanging tamarisk branch. He saw the flowing matted hair and even, for an instant, the glassy wide-open eyes. The dead man’s arms, spread like an eagle’s flapping wings, undulated in the flow of the stream, striving in an empty embrace.
A long, spangled fish leapt flashing out of the water right in front of him and for a short moment Memidik was blinded.
His clothes were dry now, stiff and rough about his body. Suddenly he jumped back into the stream. In an instant he untied the body from the tamarisk and rushed headlong down the bank, tumbling and rising, wet to the bone, but still floundering on, tugging at the rope with all his might. He tripped and fell. This time he felt the dead man under him, his arms stiff and relentless about his neck. He struggled to free himself but rolled over into the river. The water here was deep and dark, a bubbling black eddy. Memidik went under and the body with him. He struggled up to the surface and the dead man struggled with him, a living thing again. Together they fought their way out of the whirlpool and together they lay side by side on the muddy sand. In an instant their wet clinging clothes were dried stiff by the burning sun.
Memidik hoisted the body on to his back. All about him was a wide expanse of sand, smooth and fine, marred only by the imprint of birds’ feet. A shallow stream ran through the sands, mist-like, paper-thin, trickling on towards a distant mound. After a while Memidik lowered the body with infinite care and held it in a sitting position. He laid his hand on the sand. It was red-hot. Suddenly he started digging. Water came lapping up, but he went on until the hole was knee-high. He pushed the crouching body into it and, walking over to a distant field, returned with an armful of lungwort which he laid over the opening. Then he sat down beside the covered hole.
7
How the boy Hassan gathered cherry-shoots in the Cherry Valley before coming to the steep Süleymanli slope
A grey mist had settled in the Cherry Valley like the dregs of a murky pool, a thick almost palpable mist that blotted out the sunrise.
Long Ali was the first to wake up. His limbs were stiff and frozen and he could barely move. Elif and Ummahan had just risen, but Hassan was nowhere to be seen. Elif’s eyes were swollen. She looked old and worn. Ummahan was trying to open her eyelids which had stuck together during the night. She followed her mother to the foot of a huge cedar where a spring bubbled out of a pinewood spout that was overgrown with wild mint and lined with mossy, white stones. Elif held her head under the spring and let the water stream down her neck and through her long dust-stiff hair. After her, Ummahan washed her face, rubbing the crusts from her eyelids. Then she looked around.
‘Hassan’s not here,’ she said.
Ali heaved himself up and stretched his limbs till his joints cracked. He scanned the surrounding crags, the mossy spring, the mist-swathed valley and the snow-speckled mountain peak as though he had never seen them before. Then he turned to Elif who was combing her hair which glistened green-black in the hazy sunshine.
‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Hassan!’ Elif called out.
‘I know where he’s gone,’ Ummahan said. ‘Yesterday he was saying something about cherry-shoots … He’s down in the valley.’
Ali lost his temper. ‘Cherry-shoots!’ he shouted. ‘So I’m to wait here until he’s finished gathering his cherry-shoots, am I? As if I hadn’t got enough to worry me as it is!’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out with all his might: ‘Hassan! Hassaaan! Where are you?’
The mist had sunk deeper into the valley now, a dense scintillating sheet of cloud, pierced here and there by a tree-top looking like the bristles of a giant brush.
‘Hassan! Hassaaan!’
Ali’s voice rang down the valley echoing from rock to rock. He listened until the sound died away, then called again and again. Soon he forgot all about Hassan and became completely absorbed in the deep echoes of his voice. Then, suddenly, the image of his mother rose before his eyes and all his troubles came rushing back to his mind.
‘My poor poor Mother,’ he moaned aloud. ‘All alone in that empty village. What will she do? And now, that boy … Where can he have gone to? What if he’s been attacked by a wild beast?’ Ali leaned wearily against a pine-tree.
Elif had found three large stones to form a hearth, had lit a fire and put the tarhana soup to cook. The flames flared high about the pot and soon the savoury smell of melting butter and of mint drifted through the air, followed by the stronger, pungent odour of tarhana. Ali’s head whirled with hunger. His mother, Hassan, everything was wiped from his mind. Quickly he poured some of the steaming soup into a basin and grabbed a huge spoon.
‘It’s hot,’ Elif warned him.
‘That it is!’ he agreed, and began to gulp it down noisily.
A light wind rose and the shadow of a cloud drifted over the forest. The mist lifted and five large eagles appeared hovering in the distance above the Cherry Valley. Suddenly Ali flung away the basin and leapt to his feet. ‘I’m going,’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘Why should I wait for that son of a bitch? Why should I care about him when I’ve already abandoned my own mother …?’ He swung the load on to his back. ‘We’re going! What are you waiting for?’ And he set off at top speed.
Elif and Ummahan stared after him, stunned.
‘Ali,’ Elif shouted, ‘stop! What are you doing?’
He looked back a moment. ‘After what happened last year? You want me to be late again, eh? You want us to go hungry again? All because of a little pup …’
‘But, Ali, he’s only a child. We can’t leave him all alone in the wilds.’
‘Can’t we?’ he snarled and pressed on. ‘You’ll see if we can’t. Let him stay behind and starve to death. That’ll teach him!’
But he was slowing down now for somehow his legs refused to obey him. Then he turned back, dropped his load and sank beside it in despair.
‘Elif,’ he whispered, ‘could something have happened to him?’
‘How should I know …’ she sighed. ‘Oh, how I wish I knew …’
The sun was quarter-high now, the air warmer. The bubbling of the spring sounded louder and the winged insects skimmed more swiftly over its surface. They heard a rustle among the rocks. Ali turned his head and saw Hassan. He jumped up, anger flaring within him.
‘Ali, please,’ Elif murmured. ‘Please don’t touch him.’
He did not hear her. His hand raised, he flew at the child who stood rooted to the spot, staring at his father with startled eyes. Ali’s arm stopped in mid-air at the sight of Hassan with a bundle of cherry-shoots almost double his size on his back, his face dark with perspiration, his shalvar-trousers torn by the bushes, his hands and feet bleeding, looking just as though he had come out of a tough battle.
‘Have you gone mad, boy?’ he asked. ‘What do you want all these rods for?’ He seized the bundle of cherry-shoots and tossed it down the rocks. ‘You won’t be able to carry them a mile, let alone all the way down to the Chukurova. Go and eat some soup. If there’s any left.’
‘Of course there is!’ Elif cried, relieved.
‘Look at him,’ Ali grumbled. ‘Look at the state he’s in. Just for a few worthless rods …’
Hassan crouched down without a word and began to drink his soup, using his father’s huge spoon. The others stood by, watching his hand shuttling like a machine from the pot to his mouth.
‘All right,’ Ali said when Hassan had licked up the last drop. �
��Let’s go now.’
As soon as his father’s back was turned Hassan ran to his cherry-shoots, but he could not lift the faggot. He looked at Ummahan, his eyes pleading. Together they settled it on his back and he began to walk, doubled up under its weight; it looked as though each step he took would be the last.
At close of day they reached the foot of the Süleymanli slope. Ummahan was walking at Elif’s side.
‘Mother,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to Granny?’
‘Hush,’ Elif whispered in alarm. ‘Don’t let Hassan hear you.’
He was close behind, panting under his load, his face quite black now. ‘Mother,’ he asked loudly, ‘what’s happened to my Granny?’
‘Hush! Your Father mustn’t hear …’
He fell silent, for Ali had drawn up beside them and was putting down his load.
‘Look here, son,’ Ali said, touching the boy’s shoulder. ‘Those rods you’re killing yourself to tote down to the Chukurova, what d’you plan to do with them?’
Hassan smiled, a small proud smile. ‘I’m going to swap them for matches,’ he said. ‘Twenty boxes I’ll get for them this time …’
It was getting dark. The forest roared, the stream gurgled and the wind blew more strongly. And right before them the Süleymanli slope stretched upwards, steep and forbidding, into the darkening sky.
‘Well, my strongman,’ Ali said, ‘we’ll see how you’ll fare tomorrow when we have to climb that cursed slope! You haven’t forgotten about the Süleymanli slope, have you?’
The fire Elif was kindling flared and burst into tall flames. A pleasant smell of burnt pine-gum spread through the night and mingled with the scent of the water-heather that grew beside the stream.
8
How the people of Yalak village started to pick cotton in a rich field on the banks of the Jeyhan River
The Chukurova was asleep beneath the pale, fast-fading stars. Dew had fallen heavy as rain and Memidik was wet up to the knees. In his bare feet he waded through the cool dust of the road as though it were an icy stream, leaving two long parallel tracks in his wake. A slow muffled clank of horse-waggons floated up to him from afar and with it the faint strains of a song. A couple of trucks rumbled past, their headlamps beaming over the unruffled surface of the Jeyhan River. Not a breath stirred the air.
Memidik dropped down by the roadside, soaked in sweat. There was a prickly blackberry bush beside him. Seething with excitement, he gripped a branch; his hand hurt and bled, but he held on obstinately until a cloud of mosquitoes swooped down upon him. Then he let go and took to his heels, his arms flailing. Exultant thoughts chased through his mind. At last he had shed that heavy load. Sefer was dead, and Memidik could live again. He could go to Zeliha now and open his heart to her. The sight of Sefer alive, the very thought of him, had sent throbbing pains through Memidik’s body, making him pass blood just like that first time. But he was dead now. Memidik thought proudly: Sefer is dead! Muhtar Sefer! He had killed him! The mosquitoes stormed about him even more thickly, stinging him through his shirt and shalvar-trousers … In fact for some time Sefer had been as good as dead, for no one had dared talk with him, not since that day when the Lord Tashbash had disappeared and had gone to join the Forty Holy Men. ‘No one,’ he had commanded, ‘not a single one of Allah’s creatures is to speak to Muhtar Sefer, ever again!’ And so it had been. Not even his wives spoke to him. Three wives he had, that Sefer, when other people didn’t even own one! And how beautiful was his third wife, Pale Ismail’s daughter, with her large hips that swayed so voluptuously.
Memidik slumped down by the roadside again and took his head in his hands. He had very large hands. Mosquitoes hummed about him by the hundreds, needling at his face, devouring his body. Pale Ismail’s daughter … There was no counting the number of men who had passed over her … Who would take her now? She needed a strong man, or she would begin all over again, from village to village, with every single male in sight, the rabid bitch.
No creature was to speak to Sefer, those were Lord Tashbash’s last words before going off to join the Forty Holies. And hadn’t he said too that Sefer’s murder would be a blessing in Allah’s eyes? That was exactly what he’d said! And no one in Yalak village, no one, not even his own wives, ever so much as bade him good morning after that. They did not dare! For if they did Lord Tashbash would erupt from his mountain in a terrible rage and smite the traitor, leaving him blind or dumb or crippled. Let them talk with Sefer who dare!
But no one would ever talk with him again … for now he lay under the water, at the foot of a planetree, in a deep hole, with thirty heavy stones to keep him down. And the stream flowed over him … No one could find him. No one, ever. And tomorrow what would the villagers say? It’s our Lord Tashbash, they’d say. He came to take him away. Nobody would ever know … How his blood spurted out! Floods and floods of blood, staining the stream crimson, and the pebbles and the fish too, and the blackberry bush, and the planetree. Even the ants had become red. The hole had brimmed over with blood … But no one could ever find him, no one, ever … And what if they did? The dead man didn’t look like Sefer …
The whine of mosquitoes grew louder. Memidik curled himself up more closely to fend off the onslaught and scratched away frenziedly, his long dirty nails tearing savagely at his back and legs until the blood ran.
No, a dead man did not resemble what he looked like when he was alive. The dead Sefer was not at all like the living Sefer. And so it should be. The dead look like the dead … As all dead people should.
It was hot. He was suffocating. Quickly he slipped out of his clothes and dived into the river. The ice-cold water nipped at his body. Shivering, shaking all over, he swam downstream until he came to the planetree. The dead man was there, where he had left him. His eyes were wide open, huge. Suddenly Memidik heard a rustling sound. He looked up. An enormous black figure was bending over him, watching him. He uttered a cry and flung himself flat down. His hand encountered the dead man’s cold thigh, sticky with blood. His gorge rose, but he dared not stir. Suddenly the moon blazed into view, and the sky, the whole world, was bright as day. Naked against the clammy corpse, trembling in all his limbs, Memidik raised his head cautiously. The shadow had vanished. He sprang out and swiftly filled up the hole with branches, earth, wheatstalks, thistles, anything he could lay his hands on … Then he plunged into the river. He sank to the very bottom like a leaden weight, before struggling back to the surface.
The Chukurova was waking to the day. A warm sweaty haze, a reek of oily smoke, a glow like the mouth of a kiln, a smelly din was about to burst upon the weary panting plain. The Chukurova, that thousand-headed dragon, full of snares, capricious, burning, voluptuous, the Chukurova was coming to life again, a greasy yellow expanse, scorched by the sun, the mouth of a kiln, dust-tossed, flame-red …
He halted on the edge of the cotton field. Three shadows were astir, bending, rising, their motions soft and slow and cautious. Only their hands moved quickly, shuttle-like.
‘One of those heathens must be Zaladja Woman …’ Memidik murmured. ‘The other one’s Batty Bekir’s wife … The third … The third one …’ Memidik had sharp eyes. He could tell people not only by their voice or looks, but also by their gait and motions. ‘That third one on the right is the Lord Tashbash’s wife,’
He felt a quickening in his flesh. A voluptuous throb pulsed through him, shaking him down to his very bones. He gave a brief low whistle. At the sound the woman in the centre of the group raised her head. He whistled again more insistently, and she moved away from the group.
Memidik waited. He felt strangely unlike himself. He had never done such a thing before, although Batty Bekir’s wife, as everyone knew, made a point of going to bed with every adolescent in the village.
‘Is that you, Memidik? I knew you’d come to me in the end. I was waiting …’
Without more ado she stripped off her clothes and lay down, her legs taut, ivory white in the dawn light, her breasts
jutting out, full and pointed. Memidik’s hands shook so much, he could not get out of his clothes.
‘Hurry, Memidik,’ she whispered. ‘Quick, quick …’ Her fingers clawed at the warm soft earth, her body tensed into an arc. Memidik forgot everything. Her flesh was hot, burning. It seared his body like a live coal.
Then the sweat-soaked earth under them turned to mud. He took her by the hand and pulled her up. Her body brushed his like a flame. His legs shook and he crouched down again. She came at him from behind, mounting his twitching body with her warm wet thighs twined about his neck and shoulders. Then suddenly she ran off and plunged into the stream.
‘Come here, Memidik,’ she called.
He went to her like one bewitched, where she lay half in the water, her hot, wet body steaming.
‘Come, Memidik!’
He was possessed. A fever consumed him. His lips were scorched and cracked.
A truck went by and its headlamps swept the stream, lighting up the two tightly-joined bodies.
Then Memidik spoke: ‘D’you get up every night like this?’
‘Every single night.’
‘You must pick a lot of cotton then.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t for that. I was waiting. And Zaladja too …’
‘Not old Zaladja Woman!’
‘Yes, it’s because of her dreams. It’s a serpent she sees now. He comes to her bed every night and sleeps with her. Zaladja says she’s never known such sweet pleasure with a man. She says she wouldn’t exchange her serpent for a thousand youths.’
‘What a lie! She’s just afraid of men …’
‘Tashbash’s wife comes too. She’s going mad with yearning for him. The three of us get up every night after midnight and …’
‘I’ve seen him! Our Lord Tashbash! He is up there, on the Mountain of the Forty Holy Men, where it’s always cool and pleasant. What would he come here for in this heat, among all those mosquitoes and midges? “I won’t come,” he said to me, “but what I can do for you,” he said, “is to make the Chukurova cooler and send you a little rain too if you like …”’