Bliss: A Novel (29 page)

After Cemal promised to come, they continued discussing his problem. They examined it from various angles, yet could not find a solution. Meryem could neither go back to the village nor stay with Yakup’s family. She could not be left alone in this city. Even if Cemal found a job, he and Meryem could not stay in the same house as an unmarried couple. Nobody would rent them an apartment. Besides, Cemal did not want to stay in Istanbul. He wanted to return home and marry his beloved.

They spoke for hours but could not resolve the dilemma. Then Selahattin decided that they must sleep on it, and he showed Cemal to the guest room.

The heavy curtains in the bedroom and the embroidered towels laid out for him in the bathroom by his “sister-in-law” made Cemal feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Early the next morning, the two friends went to see Selahattin’s father, who lived upstairs. In fact the whole apartment building was full of Selahattin’s family, who did not want any strangers among them. The old man, who had presumably been captain of a fishing boat for many years, had a habit of shielding his eyes with his hand whenever he looked at the television, as if he had been through a violent storm and was preparing to shout “Land ho!” and give his companions the good news.

After breakfast, Cemal and Selahattin left the apartment for the office behind the fishmonger’s stall and ate again at the same restaurant near the fish market.

At six in the evening, Selahattin parked his Honda in front of a big single-story house on a hill near Eyüp, with a wonderful view of the Golden Horn—no longer golden, perhaps, but still the shape of a horn—as well as the domes of Eyüp Sultan Mosque and the Pierre Loti Café. Many cars were parked in front of the house, and the entrance was full of abandoned footwear.

Cemal followed Selahattin inside, shy at finding himself a newcomer among so many people who all knew each other. The interior of the house resembled that of a home in his village. The large living room was full of men sitting cross-legged on the floor. From their clothing, Cemal surmised that they must be tradesmen. Some wore ties.

One of the men began to chant in a high-pitched voice a poem by the mystic poet Yunus Emre with which Cemal was familiar. Meanwhile, the men on the carpet arranged themselves side by side as if to take part in ritual prayers, but no one stood up. They wore white skullcaps on their heads. Cemal noticed one of them sitting alone at the front with his back turned to the others. “Just like my father,” Cemal thought. It seemed as though a religious
zikr
ritual, like those in his father’s vineyard hut, was to take place. Soon, some of the men began to chant
“Hu.”
Then the sheikh’s followers began to sway from side to side and moan, “God! Oh God!” as they swayed increasingly faster and faster. The faster they swayed, the more excited they became. Every now and then, one of them screamed out, “God! Oh God!” in a frenzied crescendo. Eventually, some of the men became unconscious, like those Cemal had seen in the vineyard hut as a child. Others rolled on the floor, foaming at the mouth. Cemal’s father had told him that this was a state of ecstasy caused by submission to God through reciting his Holy Name. In fact, it was the result of the effect of the rhythmic chant at a tempo of 124 beats per minute. In Middle Eastern rituals, the name
“Allah”
recited at this tempo soon sends a person into a trance, this being the same tempo at which the heart beats. The same thing applies in discotheques all over the world, when the drum beats 124 times a minute.

Cemal, unexcited by this religious fervor to which he was accustomed, waited for the ritual to end and the men to calm down. The sheikh counseled his congregation on how to live a good life and recited a few of the
hadiths
of the Prophet. After some of the men left, Selahattin introduced Cemal to the sheikh. Cemal bowed and kissed his hand. Then Selahattin told the sheikh that his good friend from the military was a devout Muslim but was confused about the use of force and violence.

The sheikh stroked his white beard. Although very old, he was still full of energy, and his blue eyes reflected intelligence and wisdom.

“My son,” he said to Cemal, “in our times, since right and wrong and good and bad have become inextricably mixed, most Muslims are going through a crisis, searching for something they cannot find. I don’t blame them, but you must watch out for those who have transformed Islam into a religion of revenge. Don’t believe them. The word ‘Islam’ means ‘to submit, to surrender.’ Islam is a religion of peace. If you want to understand Islam, do not respect anything other than the Holy Quran, the
hadiths,
and the Sunna of the Prophet, because Islam is a manifested religion. In other words, it is an open, transparent way of belief. Politics spoils religion and sows discord among the believers. Listen to what the thirty-second verse of the
al-Mai’dah
Sura of the Quran has to say.…”

He first read the verse in Arabic and then explained its meaning in Turkish. “Whoever kills a person guiltless of killing others or of setting people against each other will be seen as the killer of all humanity. Whoever lets that person live or saves him from death will be seen as the savior of humanity.”

The sheikh’s soft voice, and the smile that illuminated his face, surprised Cemal. For the first time in his life, he felt that religion was not an intimidating force. He felt as though his heart were being purified with cool, clean water.

The sheikh continued, “Son, the fortieth verse of the
ash-Shura
Sura says, ‘The response to evil is an equal amount of evil. However, whosoever forgives and brings about peace will be rewarded by God.’ There is no doubt that God hates tyrants.”

The sheikh talked for a long time. He recited passages from the Quran about kindness and peace, the
al-Baqarah, al-Mai’dah, al-An’am, al-A’raf, bani I’srail, al-Hajj, al-Mumtahanah, al-Mu’min
, and
an-Nisa’
Suras. His final words from this beautiful Quranic verse stirred Cemal’s heart, “‘Do good unto your mother, unto your father, unto orphans and the poor, unto close neighbors and distant neighbors, unto the friend near you, unto the traveler, and unto those who depend upon you.’

“This is the thirty-sixth verse of the
an-Nisa’
Sura.” The sheikh then asked, “Are your doubts cleared? Are you convinced that those who act in line with the word of God and the command of our Holy Prophet are peaceful and tolerant people, who eschew tyranny and violence? Do you now understand that murderous organizations have nothing to do with God?”

Cemal felt embarrassed in the presence of this wise sheikh but was finally able to mumble, “I am convinced, teacher. May God pour his blessings on you.”

He kissed the old man’s hand again.

On the way back to Selahattin’s house, Cemal wondered how the sheikh had instinctively understood his feelings and spoken as though he knew that he had only just avoided killing Meryem. He grew suspicious of Selahattin. Had his friend told the sheikh about Cemal’s dilemma? The sheikh had even talked about orphans, as if he knew that Meryem was one, but Cemal quickly realized the absurdity of his doubts.

When they entered the house, there was a young girl with Selahattin’s wife. Selahattin introduced her to Cemal as his sister. The girl did not shake hands with Cemal but greeted him distantly. Her head and neck were tightly covered in a close-fitting scarf, which she had tied at the back of her neck. In spite of all this, Cemal could see that she was pretty, observing, however, that she had a cut on her cheek. Saliha—as Cemal heard Selahattin call his sister—began to tell them about what had happened to her that day.

As always, in the morning, she and her friends had gone to the university, only to be confronted by a police barricade to prevent female students who had their heads covered from entering the campus. The students had unfurled banners and yelled that it was the right of all human beings to cover their heads or not as they wished. They had shouted slogans such as “Islam will come and tyranny will end!” and blown whistles, while the tradesmen in the area clapped their hands in approval. The male students supported the demonstration by booing the police.

This was a familiar scene that took place every day. The police were carrying out government directives that forbade students from wearing Islamic headscarves to enter the university. Those who were not allowed on campus demonstrated in front of the gate.

That day, things had gotten out of control. Perhaps the police, who were trying to impress the secular chief of police, newly appointed to Istanbul, had been overly zealous. They had attacked the protesting girls and turned water cannons on them. They took out their truncheons and began to beat them. The girls screamed. Some fell to the ground, and others fainted in terror. When Saliha shouted at the police, “Aren’t your mothers and sisters covered, too? Aren’t you all Muslims?” a policeman hit her on the cheek. She blushed as she told her story. One could tell that she was excited and even a little pleased. They had another protest planned for the next day and would teach “those sons of Satan” a lesson. The Kemalist satanic regime in Ankara, they said, would shatter in front of this army of girls.

“Come on, Saliha,” Selahattin said, “the other day Father talked to you for hours, but it seems that everything goes in one ear and out the other. You can’t play games with the government. You have to obey your country’s laws. Besides, will you be less virtuous if someone sees your hair?”

Saliha looked at her brother angrily. “Those miserable nonbelievers have brainwashed you,” she said. “If you want, you go ahead and kiss the hand you can’t bite. We’re not doing it.”

“Until last year, you never covered your head. Were you not virtuous then?”

“I didn’t know what God’s law was then. I learned it after I started at the university, thanks to my friends. You all pretend to be religious, but you don’t practice the rules of your religion. In any case, why don’t you make your wife uncover her head?”

Fed up, Selahattin said, “May God give you some brains. Those people are manipulating you for their own agendas.”

Saliha looked at him angrily. “Brother, why don’t you become a general in the army? You’re just like them—trying to turn us into nonbelievers. It’s my right to decide whether or not to cover my head. It’s nobody else’s business.”

Saliha then left the room and went upstairs to her father’s apartment.

Over dinner, Selahattin talked about the danger of movements that were using religion as a weapon and fooling naïve young people like Saliha. “These people plan to use the headscarf protests to start an Islamic revolution in Turkey, just like they did in Iran.”

Late that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Selahattin said, “I’ve been thinking about your situation, Cemal. It’s impossible for you to stay in Istanbul. You can’t go home, either. I’ve got no idea what will happen in the long run, but we must find you and the girl a place to stay. Somewhere far away.”

“Thank you,” said Cemal, with wholehearted gratitude.

ONLY PEOPLE AND FISH GET DEPRESSED

The heavily built man with a beard and unkempt hair suddenly woke up, not because of the wind caressing his face, or the creaking of the keel or hawsers, the screeching seagulls, the soft splash of the waves, or the roar of a speedboat passing in the distance. A feeling of acute and burning desire, which pained him deeply, had woken him, though he did not fully grasp what he was longing for. It was, perhaps, a yearning for emptiness or for desire itself.

The professor opened his eyes. Dawn was breaking. At this hour, the sea was a pale, whitish blue. The color of the horizon gradually changed from indigo to blue, from blue to rose pink, and then a vast cerulean hue took over the whole sky. In this overall blue floated a single navy cloud, shaped like a curved scimitar.

After drinking so much the previous night, the professor had passed out on the deck, and the dampness of the morning dew had penetrated his clothing so that all his limbs ached.

He tried to stand up but found he had to limp as his right knee hurt so much. He had hit it badly during the race against the storm to reach the harbor. The cuts on his hands made by the ropes were painful, too. Now it would be even more difficult to handle the boat. Since his childhood, he had known very well that sailing was a violent struggle—the wind could throw you about; the waves could surge above your head; the mast could break; the boat could spring a leak; the clews could suddenly get loose. If you did not pay attention, any of these could kill you.

The professor had been too self-confident and made things harder for himself by renting a boat more than forty feet long. In fact, the boat was not complicated to sail, having only a single main sail and a genoa, but you never knew how the sea might act. Sudden counterwinds might blow, the halyards could get stuck, or some other unexpected problem could occur. This was not the type of boat he was accustomed to, and if he had another person with him, things would be much easier.

There were so many coves and dangerous rocky or shallow places on the jagged coasts of the Aegean Sea that he could not have sailed anywhere without thoroughly studying the charts and maps beforehand. Thankfully, at the bookstore in
Ku
adası
where he had bought a few new books about the history of the Bogomils, he had purchased Rod Heikell’s
Turkish Waters and Cyprus Pilot
. According to the owner of the store, this was the most detailed book written about the Aegean. The charts could save him from the many dangers to be encountered at sea.