by Yashar Kemal
‘But he’s as old as the hills!’ the hefty youth cried, keeping a firm hold on his wrist. ‘He’s a hundred at least.’
‘More, more,’ Old Halil said. ‘Let me go, my children.’ His long white beard hung woefully down his chest. ‘I gave up cotton thieving long ago. I just had to do it now once, for a very good cause …’
‘To marry your son off perhaps!’ they mocked him. ‘Well, the Chukurova’s going to have a good time with you. It’s seen many thieves but never an old rogue like you.’
With much laughter they jogged him on into the field, trussed up his hands and feet and pitched him down at the foot of the cotton heap, setting his sack still full of cotton beside him. The old man moaned and groaned and pleaded, but they shut him up.
‘That’s enough, you doddering old fool,’ they said. ‘Go to sleep. You’ll have plenty to do tomorrow. Keep your strength for that.’
The dog came and curled up beside Old Halil, who felt a sudden deep ache in him such as he had never experienced before.
As soon as it was light the hefty youth grabbed Old Halil by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. The old man’s legs almost folded up, but he kept his stand. The youth’s name was Süllü. He had green eyes and a sharp nose in a freckled face. His sun-bleached hair bristled stiffly. He untied Old Halil’s hands and passed a halter round his neck which he knotted firmly. Then he loaded the sack of stolen cotton on to the old man’s back and tugged him forward.
The sun was up the height of a minaret when they reached the first village. Long wreaths of smoke rose high into the sky above the adobe houses.
The youth pulled at the halter and Old Halil, staggering under his load, was dragged into the village. The yellow dog still kept on after him, but at a distance. Its head was hanging low.
A wild clamour broke out in the village as soon as they were sighted. In a moment a screeching horde of children was pelting Old Halil with stones, cow-pats, dried dung, clods of earth, anything. Süllü hauled him on until they came to a massive old mulberry-tree, all white with dust, under which some men were seated on wooden benches, drinking tea. They all started up. One by one they came and spat at Old Halil. From the houses people spilled out, women, old folk, girls. The whole village crowded under the mulberry-tree to spit at him. At every burst of spittle Old Halil’s face tautened and puckered. His right cheekbone was twitching all the time. Soon his face was dripping with frothy spittle. It wore the look of a bewildered suffering child who does not know which way to turn. His eyes blinked continuously under his hanging white brows.
Oaths, curses, abuse rained upon him. For the villagers this was an unhoped-for entertainment. Some voices were raised in objection. ‘Look here, he’s an old man! Don’t do this. It’s a shame …’ But they were lost in the general uproar.
Then, with all the children still yelling shrilly at their heels, Süllü paraded the old man through the streets, smiling triumphantly. The crowd of children stuck to them right up to the elm-trees on the outskirts of the village.
Old Halil’s feet were bare and the red-hot dust of the road burnt his soles. He jumped at every step and his knees trembled. The yellow dog kept after him mournfully. In the oppressive heat the load on the old man’s back felt heavier every passing minute.
As they entered the second village Süllü raised a cry: ‘Cotton thief! The cotton thief …’
The people who had retreated from the heat into their houses poured out and for a few minutes all was a turmoil of shouts and curses and blows. Old Halil vanished into a cloud of dust. Then the tumult subsided. In the sudden stillness the dust settled slowly and Old Halil emerged, hunched over on his knees as though making the namaz prayer. His clothes hung about him in tatters and soiled with dung and spittle. He had lost all human shape, an outlandish creature never seen on earth before. Even his eyes were hidden by mud and spittle and there was only the rapid, endless blinking to show that he was still alive.
Some old people, some women, intervened: ‘This is going too far! You can’t do this to a human being …’
A little boy was sobbing loudly. ‘Grandfather! They’ve killed my grandfather! I’m going to tell father when he comes. I’ll tell him …’
Süllü yanked at the halter, but Old Halil only toppled over, his mud-caked beard spreading out in the dust. When Süllü succeeded in hauling him up it was all the old man could do to keep himself on his trembling legs. He must not be shamed further. He knew these Chukurova people, he knew them for the lowest of the low. They would not scruple to drag him like a dog carrion once he fell. He had seen it done once to some cotton thief and he had laughed …
The heat was unbearable. Fire poured down from the sky. Two youths lifted the cotton sack on to Old Halil’s back. He tottered and rolled to the ground with the sack all over him. Hoots of laughter rose from the onlookers.
‘Get up, will you, you old dog,’ Süllü cried. ‘D’you think it that easy to steal cotton in the Chukurova? Here we are sweating blood for every cotton plant we raise and you come down from your cool uplands and rob us of our sweat, eh? On your feet, dotard!’
He hoisted the old man up again and shoved the sack on to his back.
‘You can’t take that old chap very far,’ the villagers remonstrated. ‘A couple of villages more and he’ll die.’
‘Let him,’ Süllü boasted. ‘I’ll drag him on then through the dust.’ And he walked away with Old Halil in tow, past the adobe houses and on to the burning road again.
They went through two more villages. Old Halil did not jump now as he stepped over the scorching earth. His eyes did not blink any more. When he fell he remained quite still. Süllü tried to heave him to his feet, but in vain.
The village agha looked at Süllü. ‘D’you know where the old rascal comes from?’
‘Of course,’ Süllü answered. ‘We know all about him.’
‘Well then, you’d better take him back to his people at once or he’ll drop dead on you and where will you be? Here, take this cart …’
‘Ah,’ Süllü said regretfully, ‘he deserved ten more villages of this! You saw his eyes, how they were blinking, how cunning …’
Old Halil was flung into the cart without further ceremony. He had not even strength enough to cry out.
The sun was well down in the west and the heat had lessened a little when the cart lurched full tilt into the field where the Yalak villagers were working. Süllü shoved Old Halil’s limp body out of the cart. The yellow dog came up and sniffed at the crumpled figure, then went and squatted some way off, wagging its tail angrily.
‘This fellow here is Old Halil,’ Süllü announced. ‘We caught him stealing cotton. Take him. He’s all yours!’ He whipped up the horses and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
They all crowded about Old Halil, their hearts torn with pity. Some people were weeping. Quickly, they washed and cleaned him and after a while he opened his eyes. Long Ali was beside him. He smiled.
‘I botched it this time, son,’ he said faintly. ‘I got myself caught’ Then his face darkened. ‘Look, Ali, promise me you won’t say a word of this to Meryemdje. She mustn’t know I nearly died because of her. You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘And get back to her quickly. Poor Meryemdje … You promise?’
‘I promise.’
39
Meryemdje is bored to death and more and more afraid. Not a sign of Spellbound Ahmet any more, nor of Tashbash, much less of the peris. Not even bandits or reivers deign to come near this ill-starred village! Meryemdje has nothing to do but go to the forest and gather mushrooms and sweetbriar hips and mountain apples, rose-scented.
It was dark inside the forest, and wet. Circling the east a narrow, shining streak of light broke through the clouds, but the sun was still invisible. Meryemdje was picking mushrooms. Forest mushrooms can be the most delectable food in the world, especially when broiled over a fire. By mid-morning her basket was full of the largest she could find and her back
ached. It put her in mind of those who were toiling down in the Chukurova cotton fields under the yellow heat, and that made the pain even worse. How their backs must hurt them now! She could visualize them crawling among the cotton plants like cats with broken backs. She could feel the sores of their mosquito bites. And, worst of all, the finger-tip fear, when to touch anything is sheer torture. And the heat, oh the heat! Hassan and Ummahan rose before her eyes and her heart bled.
It was still a good while to midday when she came home. Suddenly she stopped dead. The basket dropped from her hands and the mushrooms spilled all over the road. She rubbed her eyes, unable to believe that what she saw was not a vision, a dream. She looked again, hard. It was real; it was a man coming up the hill!
It’s Tashbash, she thought, and rejoiced. Then, no, it’s Spellbound Ahmet … But she knew it could be neither. A bandit perhaps? A thief, a smuggler … It might be a foe as much as a friend, but what matter? It was a human being and he was coming this way. Meryemdje picked up the mushrooms quickly and put them back into the basket. But she did not go in. She could not take her eyes off the approaching figure. Suddenly she laughed with glee and took three dancing steps. The world, so empty only a moment ago, was suddenly full and rich, the trees different now, the birds, the flowers, the broken-down houses that had stood like ruins, everything was altered, everything was warm and sunny and laughing. Even the cock perched on top of a bush uttered three long joyful crows, even he felt the world filling up again.
‘I don’t care who you are,’ Meryemdje murmured. ‘Thief or sinner or hardened murderer, it’s enough that you’re coming to me. Oh Allah, my black-eyed beautiful Allah, please don’t go punishing your creatures with solitude. I wouldn’t want even my enemy to suffer what I’ve suffered …’ Then she gave a cry. ‘But what am I doing! You fool, Meryemdje; your lion is coming to see you and you’re still standing here doing nothing …’
She hurried into the house and took her green flannel dress out of her chest. It was kept there for special occasions and she had worn it only three times. Putting it on at once, she then adorned herself with her ear-rings, her nose-ring and also her coral necklace. Over her head she tied her green silk kerchief and after drawing on her white stockings she eyed with some doubt the pair of shoes which the Lady she had worked for years ago in the Chukurova had given her. She almost never wore them, they made her feet so sore. But now she must. Yes, she must look her best for the longed-for visitor.
When she came out again and saw that he was still outside the village, she could not wait. Flinging out her arms she hurried down the road to meet him, a whirlwind of joy. Who could it be? This huge tall youth … Then it came to her in a flash.
‘Omer, my child, my brave lad,’ she cried, throwing herself at his neck. ‘Oh, how glad your Mother Meryemdje is that you’ve come! Welcome, welcome, my good lad. How glad I am to see you, how delighted …’
She hardly knew what to do or say. Omer was struck dumb. He had never expected this and he could not look Meryemdje in the face. Never in his life had anybody shown him so much affection. No one had ever kissed him so lovingly. He tried to kiss Meryemdje’s hand, but he could not move, overcome by a strange, unfamiliar emotion. Something was kneading at his throat.
Meryemdje was much too happy to notice anything. She seized Omer’s hand and drew him on. Inside the house she took out a pallet and cushions and made him sit down.
‘There, my child,’ she said. ‘Sit down and rest, my good lad, my dear Ayshé’s only son. How tired you must be.’
She bustled about and was soon back with a jug of water, a basin, soap and a towel.
‘Take off your shoes,’ she ordered. ‘You’ve come such a long way …’
Before Omer had time to realize what was happening, she had stripped him of his shoes and was washing his feet in the basin. Then she held the jug for him while he washed his face and hands.
That’s Mother Meryemdje all over, Omer was thinking, warm-hearted, overflowing with kindness and love. Good to everyone … And for me she’s always had a particular soft spot … Because of my poor mother. She loved her as a daughter …
‘You lie down and rest,’ Meryemdje was saying, ‘while I make up the fire. You must be famished.’
Quickly she piled some logs into the fireplace. Then as soon as she had the fire going, she found the length of twine strung with corn and went out. The cock was strutting about in front of Hadji’s house. She no sooner cast the string before him than he dashed up and swallowed the com.
‘Stupid fool,’ Merdemdje said. ‘How quickly you forget! Wasn’t it just like this I caught you only a few days ago?’
The cock struggled, sending his feathers all over the place, but Meryemdje had him. She brought him in. ‘Omer, my child,’ she said, ‘will you kill this chicken so I can cook it for you? You must be terribly hungry after walking all this way.’
Omer rose, drawing his long Circassian dagger from his waist. He put his right foot over the cock’s legs, his left on the wings and at one stroke of the sharp dagger he severed his head. The headless cock gave a few hops, took a couple of steps and fell.
Meryemdje picked him up and plucked him. ‘No one can eat another’s due,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got a basket of plump mushrooms too, I picked only this morning. Look, my child. Just the thing for you.’
The wood had burnt itself to a glowing red mass of embers. Meryemdje spread out the embers and laid the mushrooms over them, together with the chicken. The fat meat sizzled.
For the first time Omer raised his head and glanced at Meryemdje. She seemed different to him in the glow of the fire. How thin and scraggy her neck was! It would snap at a touch … It flashed upon Omer that it was this neck he would have to press with his hands when he strangled her.
‘Mother Meryemdje loves me.’ The nagging thought would not leave him. ‘She loved my mother too …’
Appetizing fumes rose from the roasting chicken and Omer felt a sharp pang of hunger.
40
The villagers are pleased. They have finished the first pick of the field. So rich is the crop that they know the money they will get will be sufficient to pay back their debts to Adil Effendi, even if they don’t do any more picking.
A cotton boll is usually composed of three to five segments. Sometimes, but more rarely, it may have six or seven. But a boll with only two segments comes hardly once in a thousand. It is called a donkey and the labourer who finds it does not strip it of its cotton. He keeps it whole and makes a ceremonious present of it to the plantation owner who rewards him and sometimes even gives a feast to all the labourers, according to the extent of his generosity.
On the third day of the picking Zaladja Woman had come upon one of these rare bolls. She had tied it up carefully into one end of her headscarf and now nursed great expectations. So did all the others, for everyone knew her secret.
The first crop was picked and over with. That morning everyone rose even earlier than usual. They cast away their dirty garments and dressed as best they could in neat clean clothes. The women adorned themselves with trinkets. Youths and girls strolled lazily among the cotton heaps, tired but proud and happy to have completed their task. The talk was all about the cotton, who had picked the most, and how much money they would get. The tallest mound was obviously Long Ali’s. They still could not get over their amazement at the quickness of his hands. Surely the Chukurova had never seen the like of it. When in a little while the weighers would arrive and set up their platform-scales, they too would never believe that one man had picked all that amount of cotton single-handed.
But for the satisfaction of having got the picking over, no one would have been able to stir from bed for three days. Their backs ached as if broken. A lancinating pain shot through their hearts when their fingers touched anything, making them feel sick and faint. The sores from mosquito bites had suppurated and it was worse with the children. But they did not care now. They hardly even felt the burning sting and twinge of
their raw bodies.
First a dust-smothered black Mercedes motor-car drew up near the field. It was the latest model and had been brought over from Germany only six months before. A short, paunchy man got out. He was very dark, with grizzling hair, a round face and violet pouches under the eyes. He wore a white linen suit and held a panama hat in his hand. A gold chain hung over his paunch. He was followed by a dark-eyed young man who stood at attention behind him, his hands joined in respect.
Muhtar Sefer rushed up and bowed low, but as soon as he made himself known the paunchy man burst out laughing. Disgruntled, the muhtar joined his hands obsequiously and tried to laugh too.
‘So you’re the muhtar no one will talk to, eh? Not even your wives and children, eh? Well, I’m talking to you now. Does that make me a bad Moslem? Will something terrible happen to me? Why, there’s not a soul in all the Chukurova who hasn’t heard the story of that saint of yours!’ He held his paunch and rocked with laughter.
The villagers stood quite still, staring, their faces expressionless.
‘This is Muttalip Bey,’ Sefer said, ‘who owns this plantation and many more lands in the Chukurova. A great bey … Our good benefactor …’
‘Now look here, villagers,’ Muttalip Bey said, ‘why don’t you speak to this poor fellow? Just because that saint told you not to? Now then, villagers! Don’t tell me you believe in saints! In this age? Haven’t you seen the jets that take to the air from Injirlik Airport? Don’t you know that men are already travelling into space? A saint in this age? Now, villagers! …’ He held forth in this vein, haranguing the villagers on civilization for a good while. Then he said: ‘I’ve heard that your saint has left his holy mountain and has come down to pick cotton with you. Is he here? Well, fetch him then. Let me see him. Let me be accepted into his holy presence too!’
‘Go and get Tashbash,’ Sefer ordered the watchman. ‘Tell him the law is calling him. Muttalip Bey, the leader of our Party.’