The Undying Grass

by Yashar Kemal

  ‘To pieces, ah, to pieces …’ Memidik muttered under his breath. There was a hollow feeling somewhere in his breast. Where were they heading for, those eagles? Where? …

  The pickers worked in a long row, elbow to elbow. Shirtless, picking on Ali’s right, was getting more and more ruffled at his neighbour’s agility. Long Ali forged on four, five yards ahead of the row, then came back and picked the cotton plants that were right before Shirtless’s nose. Enraged, unable to contain himself any longer, Shirtless began to grumble aloud: ‘It’s not human! He’s swallowing up the whole lot. At this rate he’ll pick all the cotton by himself. The man’s making a hundred kilos a day, by God he is …’

  He kept reckoning up in his head how much money Ali would make. If they pay us twenty kurush for one kilo, then a hundred kilos is twenty liras. Twenty liras a day! As much as a whole family would pick … And what if he picked a hundred and fifty kilos? That would add up to thirty liras. The very idea made him furious.

  ‘Breh, breh, breh!’ he exclaimed, louder than before. ‘What kind of a man are you anyway?’

  Ali showed no sign of having heard him. Shirtless was thoroughly incensed. ‘What can you expect from a fellow who’s killed his own mother?’ he growled. ‘A man who’s capable of doing that isn’t human, that’s a fact!’

  To make it worse, all the mosquitoes of the world seemed to be buzzing about his ears and jabbing through his shirt. It was more than he could bear.

  ‘God damn you to perdition, you mother-murderer,’ he cursed, and grabbing his sack fled to the other end of the row. ‘That man makes my blood boil,’ he confided to Batty Bekir whom he found himself next to. ‘It isn’t hands he’s got, damn him, but machines. Have you ever seen anyone pick cotton at that speed?’

  Batty Bekir laughed uproariously. ‘Well, he wasn’t like that before. He was just like you and me. Look at the heap he’s gathered in two days, as much as five men. Ah, he’s changed indeed, Long Ali, after killing his mother …’

  Ummahan and Hassan stopped dead.

  ‘I knew it,’ Hassan whimpered. ‘I knew Father would do this thing … Last year when he had to carry Granny all the way down here, his back got sore, and besides that he had to listen to the cruel things Granny said to him all the time …’

  ‘Father’s killed my Granny,’ Ummahan said. ‘I saw it with my own eyes. She was in her bed and he had his huge hands about her throat. Poor Granny, she died on the spot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Hassan said. ‘I’d have saved her!’

  ‘There was no time. His hands were covered with blood!’

  Hassan was weeping silently. The tears ran down his face and neck and into his shirt. ‘Zaladja Woman saw it in her dream, just like you said. And she’s told everyone about it … I wish we’d never come to the Chukurova this year. Then Father wouldn’t have killed Granny.’

  ‘He’d have killed her anyway,’ Ummahan said. ‘I heard him talking to Mother one day this winter. “I’m sick of the woman,” he said. “She’s the plague of my life. I’m fed up. If she’d only die and let me be …”’ She burst into tears.

  ‘Hush, Ummahan,’ her brother said. ‘People mustn’t know or they’ll take Father and throw him into prison. And then we’ll be left all alone, friendless, abandoned on this great plain.’

  Ummahan stopped at once and dried her eyes. ‘Nobody’s heard me, don’t worry.’

  ‘And don’t stop working,’ he told her sternly. ‘You can talk as you pick, can’t you? It’s for a small handful of this precious cotton that Father had to kill Granny. Look at him now, how quickly he’s working. It’s just as though he had a grudge against this cotton for what it’s done to him … And the others? Have you seen how they’re bursting with jealousy? It’s because Father’s picking five hundred kilos each day. Five times as much as anyone else …’

  Ummahan drew nearer to him. ‘Did you see those men?’ she whispered. ‘The three men with the large panama hats and white clothes? I saw them three times as they rode by the field. They came to visit Muhtar Sefer too. They’re very important men and they’re searching for someone. I’m sure it’s Father. They’re going to catch him and take him away; it’s sure to happen, especially as Sefer hates him …’

  ‘Idiot!’ Hassan said impatiently. ‘If it’s Father they want what business have they running day and night up hill and down vale? They’re looking for Shevket Bey, my girl, that’s what!’

  ‘Who’s Shevket Bey?’

  ‘Be quiet, stupid,’ he said huffily. ‘I said Shevket Bey and that’s enough! Now get on with your work. The sun’ll be up soon and our sack is still empty. What will Mother say?’

  Suddenly he was sorry he had spoken so harshly. Poor Ummahan, she was so unhappy, mourning for her grandmother … Then it occurred to him that his father must be mourning too. He had killed his mother whom he loved more than his own soul. Poor Father, it was poverty which had driven him to do it. Curse this poverty …

  ‘Look here, Ummahan,’ he said, ‘don’t cry again. You can’t die with the dead. Granny was very old. She would have died soon anyway. Listen, tomorrow we’ll go to that marshy wood and find last year’s bird’s nest. We’ll take my matches too. I’ll give you five boxes all for yourself, if you like. What’s the use my keeping them now Granny’s not here to see …’

  ‘Granny …’ She was sobbing bitterly but her hands were on the cotton plants, picking steadily.

  Hassan began to cry too. His Granny rose before his eyes. He remembered the kind things she used to say to him. His shoulders shook with sobs.

  ‘Hassan!’ Ummahan nudged him suddenly. ‘The three riders! They’ve come again to look for Shevket Bey.’

  Three horsemen were indeed galloping towards the field along the dusty road by the river.

  ‘They won’t find him,’ Hassan said with conviction. ‘He’s hiding from them.’

  ‘He’s not hiding,’ Ummahan said. ‘Somebody’s killed and buried him. Zaladja Woman saw it in her dream …’

  They cantered along the field and faded into the grey dawn. Hard upon them Muhtar Sefer, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his cartridge belt and hunting bag tied to his waist, strode past and went his way. Memidik started up, quivering with rage.

  ‘You … You … You ought to be cut to pieces, to ribbons! And now, instead, I’ve killed that poor man …’

  In the far distance, under a cluster of white clouds, Memidik’s keen eyes picked out a movement in the sky. Eagles, vultures and ravens were circling over the marshy wood by the river.

  ‘They’ll find him now,’ he fretted. ‘What an idea to have put that body into a well! … They’ll find out who killed him too and they’ll hang me … And Muhtar Sefer will live on …’ He gritted his teeth.

  Suppose he ran back to the well at once and took the body out? But it would be light by then, and anyway where else could he hide it so that the birds of prey could not smell it? …

  ‘I must get one of those burlap sacks … No, no, burlap’s not stout enough. It must be haircloth. I’ll tie him up in it with a large heavy stone inside too, and then I’ll throw the sack into the deepest part of the Jeyhan River. Into the Ali-Never-Sank weir. Nobody’ll ever find it there.’

  But what if he wanted to see the body again? What if he needed it for something or other? Why should he need it? Well, he might. He’d never be able to get it out from the bottom of the weir. But where else could he hide it? No place seemed safe enough. He had tried everything, burying it under the planetree, in the marsh … Throwing it into the well … It was no use. There was simply no place for it in the whole of the huge Chukurova plain.

  Mosquitoes whined about his ears. His hands and feet, his face and back smarted with their bites. He scratched away furiously and the more he scratched, the more he thought of his corpse.

  ‘Sister,’ he said to Tashbash’s wife who was beside him, ‘these mosquitoes seem to be made of bone. Their sting pierces the flesh like a sword. Why, they could eas
ily suck all the blood out of a man’s body!’

  She sighed, a long bitter sigh. ‘I can’t even lie down any more,’ she said. ‘My back’s one big sore. I’ve never seen such mosquitoes in the Chukurova before.’

  It had been light for some time and now the sun rose. Its heat clamped down over the plain almost at once. Soon the earth was hot as a live coal and the labourers who had been barefoot since dawn hastened to put on their old worn shoes.

  The eagles were circling over the well in greater numbers now.

  ‘Aah,’ Memidik said, ‘this time they’ll find him …’

  A thick fulvous smoke smothered the whole plain. The distant crags of Anavarza steamed in a scintillating brightness and the Jeyhan River flashed blindingly, a smouldering stream of molten silver. Sweating in the torrid heat, the perspiration burning into their mosquito wounds, the labourers were slower now. The long line advanced almost imperceptibly.

  Memidik’s hands moved automatically. His eyes were on the eagles … The sky was frayed to a smoky yellow in the blazing heat, and on this yellow the black spots that were the eagles came and went, now nearer, now farther, but even more numerous, dark slow-circling spots under the sun, pitch-black sparks embedded in a steaming shimmer …

  ‘In this heat who’d bother to go and look …’ The idea made him feel easier and for a while he forgot the corpse. Then suddenly all his fears came flooding back and his heart tightened. He ran over to Durmush and began to pick silently beside him. Durmush was an alert young man with bright sharp eyes in a long sunburnt face. He shot a questioning glance at his friend.

  ‘Listen,’ Memidik said at last. ‘Listen, Durmush. You remember the dead man? In the well? Let’s suppose he’s still there … But now hundreds and hundreds of eagles and crows and vultures are circling above the well. And those three riders are still looking for him. Won’t they think of looking in the well when they see those eagles?’

  Durmush was surprised. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose so.’ He raised his head. ‘Look!’ he said, pointing to the sky. ‘Look! There really are some eagles over there! Don’t you see them? There, you can’t miss them, there are so many …’

  Memidik shaded his eyes with his hand and looked towards the well. The eagles were there, in greater number than before. They’ll find him, he thought. It’s impossible they won’t … ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said aloud. ‘Where d’you see eagles?’

  ‘It’s the glare of the sun,’ Durmush said. ‘That’s why you can’t see them. Today’s going to be very very hot. Who’d trouble to look for a corpse in this heat? And go all the way to that well?’

  He looked doubtfully into Memidik’s face. Could it be that his friend was in trouble? All this talk about corpses and wells …

  Again the three riders came into view. They galloped off along the river towards the Tilki woodswamp, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Memidik looked to see whether they were carrying anything like a corpse with them, but they had nothing. He felt better. The sun was not even quarter-high yet. There was no help for it, he had to wait for the night.

  Towards noon the earth shrivelled up and cracked open under the grilling sun. Trucks, motor-cars, horse-carts, tractors with their trailers, rumbled along the road at the foot of the Anavarza crags raising clouds of dust that lingered in the still, windless air.

  In the noonday heat the labourers work in the shade, stripping the seed-cotton from the boll, and afterwards, in the afternoon, when the south wind arises, they go out into the fields again. This time, instead of snapping the whole boll of cotton to store into their sacks, they pluck out the seed on the spot, leaving the empty burs on the plants. They work thus till sunset.

  ‘By noon,’ Memidik said, ‘the birds will be falling to the ground. Let’s go this afternoon and bathe in the river.’

  ‘All right,’ Durmush said.

  Then Shirtless’s deep voice was heard. ‘That’s enough, friends. The plants are much too dry now. The cotton’ll be no good. Let’s stop.’

  They all grabbed their sacks and cans and baskets and made off for the wattle-huts. Zaladja Woman rushed ahead and close behind her bobbed the cotton-white head of Okkesh Dagkurdu. There, in the shade, they rested awhile, then set to strip the moist seed-cotton from the bolls. Everyone was satisfied. The field was a rich one, the cotton plants waist-high and heavy with fist-sized bolls. They were tired but happy. The slowest worker could make thirty to forty kilos a day in such a field.

  The Bald Minstrel took up his saz and started to sing. The song throbbed into the air, then like dregs settling at the bottom of a glass it foundered over the fields. In the sweltering heat the song sounded faint and unfamiliar. The Bald Minstrel stopped short and put away his saz.

  ‘Greetings to my father-bard, Karadjaoglan,’ he said. ‘Greetings from this hell, this stifling heat, these ravenous mosquitoes! Greetings to the cool springs, the white-pined highlands!’

  He began plucking his cotton. His wife, his sister-in-law and his six sons were working with him. All his sons played the saz and sang like their father.

  The cotton exuded an acrid, mouldy smell that mingled with the ashy smell of burnt parched earth. Before each wattle-hut a fire was lit and the tarhana soup set to cook. Soon the saucepans were bubbling away under the sun.

  Long Ali never once lifted his head, completely absorbed in the work of his nimble fast-moving hands. Before him were two large sacks filled to bursting. Would he finish plucking all that by afternoon picking time? That was the question in everyone’s mind. Impossible, people said. How can he pluck that amount of cotton? But Ali did. He finished his lot before anyone else and then went to help out Old Halil.

  Memidik could not sit still. He had soon done with his cotton and without even stopping to drink his soup he rushed up to Durmush. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Quick, brother, let’s go and cool ourselves in the river.’

  They were joined by two other youths whom Memidik did not dare turn away. He ran ahead and casting off his clothes plunged quickly into the water. At the noise a group of mud-covered turtles sunning themselves on the river-bank scudded back into the water. Memidik swam until he was out of breath, his eyes never leaving the fulvous, burning sky where a single eagle, its huge wings flapping slowly, was making for the well.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Memidik muttered. ‘The others are there already. You go too and let that be the end of me! Ah, they’ll find the well and everything …’

  A strangled moaning seemed to rise from the depths of the earth. It was Home-Leave again. ‘I’m burning, friends,’ he groaned. ‘I’m dying in this heat.’ He threw himself into the water, clothes and all, and lay quite still. Before long he was shivering. He dragged himself out on to a patch of green grass. ‘I’m cold,’ he whimpered. ‘I’m dying of cold. Help! Save me, friends. Do something, you bastards …’ His face taut with pain, his lips chapped, beads of perspiration on his brow, he twitched and tossed in a paroxysm of fever.

  Memidik got out of the water. Once more the eagles were assembling, thicker than ever, filling the whole sky. The three men would see them now … Just then Zeliha came walking towards him. He bowed his head at once, but her warm smile when she saw him did not escape him. ‘She likes me,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she even loves me, but …’ As always when he saw her the thought of Sefer made him wince and his old scars smarted. He looked up, his heart beating wildly, but Zeliha had gone. Batty Bekir’s wife … Against his will his feet forced him to her wattle-hut. She was sitting there plucking at the cotton bolls. Her husband was asleep, his head resting on her knees. Memidik sat down beside her, his knee touching hers.

  ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t drive me mad.’ Her body was suddenly hot as a live coal. ‘Go quickly. I’ll meet you tonight under that tree there.’

  He forgot the eagles, Sefer, the cotton, everything. As he left he found himself singing a lively song he had never sung before.

  fn1 Woman is added to Turkish feminine proper na
mes when the person is elderly.

  13

  Fifteen gendarmes headed by a first-lieutenant, six policemen and the three men with panama hats riding their bare horses come to the cotton field and cross-question the villagers who are very much alarmed.

  In the afternoon the south wind began to blow, weaving its spider’s web over the Chukurova plain and whipping the dust off the roads into long whirling pillars that scudded on towards the Taurus foothills and vanished in the distance. From far over the southern Mediterranean an occasional cloud drifted in, shedding a cool shade on the fields where long-legged, red-beaked storks stepped languidly to and fro.

  The cotton pickers in a row facing north were silent, engrossed in their work. Suddenly, on the road that led to Jeyhan town, they saw the dust swell up as though an army was tramping by. Then, from the curtain of dust two open trucks emerged, one red, the other blue, and came to a stop on the edge of the cotton field. They were loaded with gendarmes and policemen smothered up to their eyelashes in layers of dust; only their teeth gleamed. They poured out of the trucks slapping their clothes, like so many bursting sacks of flour, and marched into the cotton field.

  ‘Stop working, all of you,’ the first-lieutenant ordered, ‘and come here.’

  The villagers drew up, huddling against each other.

  ‘They’ve come to get Long Ali!’ someone whispered.

  ‘And he thought he would get away with it! Killing his own mother, poor helpless old Meryemdje … Leaving her body prey to the beasts and birds and then coming here to pick cotton as though nothing had happened …’

  ‘As if the Government wouldn’t get wind of it …’

  All heads turned to Ali who was still picking away, completely absorbed, his hands moving so swiftly they were almost invisible.