Bliss: A Novel (7 page)

Other than Meryem, almost everybody in the village had witnessed miracles: Girls flew up in the air, and chickens talked. Visits to shrines where votive rags were tied to trees, or fervent prayers during celebrations for the coming of summer and on the Night of Power, when the Holy Quran was revealed, all produced results for others, but none of what she wished for ever came true.

“I must be cursed,” Meryem often thought.

And everybody secretly agreed. After all, her mother had died in agony in childbirth, as prophesied in a dream. Meryem must be ill-fated since she had caused the death and brought ill luck to the house. She was unfortunate and would probably end up an unmarried old maid. Even now, at age fifteen, she still had no suitors. No mother wished to have her as a bride in her house.

While others witnessed pleasing miracles, Meryem saw horrid nightmares. Mary the Mother, whose name she carried, had never revealed herself or given her any direct guidance through dreams. God forgive! What kind of a mother was she! She must be the one who was sending her these terrible nightmares to test her patience and the limits of her endurance.

In the cold isolation of the barn, where day and night blended imperceptibly, Meryem woke up, screaming. She had imagined herself clinging to the ground near the brink of an abyss. Far away in the mist, she could see the outline of a vast city. “Istanbul,” Meryem thought. “That must be the Istanbul they are always talking of.” The city was so large that she could not see its limits. Even though she wanted to stand up for a better look, she was paralyzed with fear. Suddenly the heavens rocked with thunder. Meryem looked up and saw thousands of white birds flying over her head. Their flapping wings caused a rush of wind so great that it dragged her toward the chasm. She clawed desperately at the earth. The swarm of birds flew off, then returned, repeating the same pattern of flight over and over again. Each time the flock passed overhead, Meryem edged closer to the void.

Now awake, Meryem glanced around the barn, expecting to see those fearsome birds, but the cold, dark space was empty. Her thin blanket had slipped onto the floor, and her feet and hands felt frozen.

Meryem listened for sounds of the world outside. The village had been oddly silent for the last few days, the house, too. Every now and then she heard a few agitated whispers or muted footsteps, but the chatter of the women who baked bread once a week in the earthen oven in the neighboring garden did not reach her ears.

As a child, she had loved to watch the thin sheets of bread browning on the iron trays and to breathe in the mouthwatering aroma. The women would fold the newly baked bread into big triangles, spreading fresh butter across each layer. The butter quickly melted and sizzled, filling the air with a fragrance that whetted Meryem’s appetite—along with those of all the children who stood impatiently nearby—waiting for a taste of the delicacy, known as shepherd’s pasty, which was one of Meryem’s favorites. Once Meryem had seen a yellow chick accidentally fall into the flames at the bottom of the outdoor oven. Unable to save the tiny creature, Meryem had quite forgotten to eat her pasty and had wept all day long.

As Meryem lay locked in the barn, everything was still and hushed. Even the village, usually bustling with people and the noise of horses, donkeys, roosters, chickens, and minibuses, was shrouded in silence. The only sounds to pass through the walls were the muezzin’s hoarse voice calling the faithful to prayer, the occasional grind of a distant tractor, and the infrequent rattle of a passing cart.

Meryem felt the quiet was somehow related to her—perhaps the aftermath of that terrible event in the cabin. But what did it mean? Could the whole village become silent because of what happened to one young girl?

Meryem clutched her blanket. At that moment she understood. The villagers were waiting for her to do her duty. Not only her family but the entire community was waiting silently for her to end the problem. As soon as she hanged herself, everything would return to normal. The villagers could get on with their daily routine—shopping, cleaning, praying. The sound of children at play would again fill the streets. Like other girls ruined before her, Meryem no longer had the right to live. This is what Döne had been trying to tell her. The expression on Döne’s face had conveyed the message, just as the unusual quietness of the house and the silence of the village was doing.

The realization chilled Meryem’s heart. She felt responsible to everyone she knew—her father, her uncle, her aunts, and Gulizar the midwife, who had helped her come into this world.

For a while Meryem wept quietly. Then she picked up the rope she had hurled to the floor the day before, threw it over the beam, tied it with a knot, and made a noose at the other end. She stepped onto the log and passed the rope over her head. Its coarseness hurt her throat.

Meryem hesitated. She was about to fulfil her duty. “All you have to do is kick the log away,” she said to herself. “The others did it. You’ll swing a bit, and your throat will turn black and blue. Your tongue will stick out. It will only last a minute, no longer.”

“But where will I go after that?” Meryem wondered. She could not think of an answer.

She did not know how long she had been standing there when she heard a key turning in the lock and saw Döne enter the barn with a small tray of food. Their eyes met. Döne slowly turned around and walked softly out of the room without leaving the tray.

Meryem was consumed with rage.

“Bitch!” she hissed. “You bitch!” she repeated, pulling the noose from over her head.

Döne was probably telling the rest of the family that Meryem was finally doing her duty. She could see them all, waiting there in silence, and the image made her angry. She would defy them and go to Istanbul.

“Kill yourself, you slut!” Meryem cried out, thinking of Döne, and tears began rolling down her cheeks.

She closed her eyes and prayed for help from all the holy saints. Her aunt always used to say, “It’s only when problems become unbearable that one is granted a solution.”

Meryem had reached that point.

“I beg you, blessed Hızır, show me your face,” she pleaded. “I know that whoever sees your holy face in his dream gets rid of all his troubles. Blessed saint, please hear my call. I’m in distress. Please show me your face. O God, please let the door open and Hızır come in instead of Döne. Let him take me all the way to Istanbul.”

Meryem recited every prayer she knew, but when she opened her eyes, she was still alone. No one from the family had even come to check on her. Maybe they were quietly listening on the other side of the door.

Meryem remembered her school days, when she roamed the streets freely and rolled a hoop with Cemal and Memo, who were like older brothers to her.

The yearly celebrations commemorating the village’s liberation from Russian occupation were among the most enjoyable times of her youth. While the villagers marched to the accompaniment of martial airs played by the municipal band, the thunder of gunfire filled the air.

Meryem loved taking part in the parade with her schoolmates in their black uniform pinafores with the white collars. She and the other students were instructed to line up, touch shoulders, and, after shuffling into position, were given the order, “Right, turn,” and off they would walk down the street, accompanied by the beat of the drums. Meryem felt that all eyes were on her, and she held her head high. As they marched under the triumphal arch, she imagined that she was passing under a rainbow. Cannons would fire, and their thunderous roar made everyone recall
eker
Baba’s miraculous shower of hail on the Russian troops. Afterward, she and her schoolmates would sit in the places reserved for them in the square to watch a reenactment of the liberation.

Dressed up like Russian or Turkish soldiers, the young men of the village performed the same show every year. Village youths who were fairer-skinned and huskier than the others were chosen to act the part of the Russians and attack the darker, shorter youths who were the Turkish troops. At the decisive moment, the brave Turks would gain the upper hand and force the Russians to flee. They would hoist the Turkish flag, with numerous explosions being set off simultaneously, while the crowd cheered and dense smoke filled the square. The band would then strike up a rousing march.

Cemal and Memo took part in this performance every year. Well built and fair-skinned, Cemal played the part of a Russian, while Memo, who was smaller and darker, acted the role of a Turk. The municipality paid the participants, but the Russians received more than the Turks since they had to take a beating. Even though Cemal earned twice as much as Memo, he felt playing the role of a Turkish soldier was more honorable. Sometimes Memo would say to Cemal, “I’m Kurdish, and you’re a Turk, but I always end up being a Turkish soldier in the performance.”

Everybody would laugh, but their roles remained unchanged.

Once the festival had been spoiled when the performance deviated from the established script, angering the provincial officer, mayor, and gendarmerie commander. As usual, the Russians launched the attack, then fell back in the face of the Turkish counterassault. Inflamed by a nationalistic frenzy caused by the martial music and the patriotic verses they had heard, the Turks beat and kicked the Russian soldiers, who fell passively to the ground. They were getting paid to take the blows but had not bargained for such a beating. But the roll of the drums, the call of the trumpet, and the roar of the cannons had stirred the Turks’ blood. Shouting war cries, they kicked and punched their opponents with all their might, and the performance area started to resemble a real battlefield. Blood flowed from the noses of the Russians, and their faces were cut and swollen.

Meryem heard her cousin Cemal shouting at Memo, “Are you crazy? Stop!”

All the Russians were yelling, but it was useless. Finally, the Russians’ patience broke, and they stood up and fought back. Battered unmercifully, their blood was up by then, and their superior physical strength forced the Turks to flee.

The Russians were victorious that year, and the local authorities, furious, immediately stopped the celebration. The crowd dispersed, and the village settled back into its accustomed torpor.

Meryem remembered the bruised and bloody faces of Cemal and Memo, and she started to giggle. Then she thought of those listening on the other side of the door. Would they not be surprised to hear a dead girl laughing?

LIFE IS A JOKE

“Can a man turn into a totally different person and start a new life?”

İrfan Kurudal was asking himself this question as he sat among a boisterous group of friends in a small fish restaurant on the Bosphorus. The lights of a passing steamer were reflected in the glass of the tightly closed windows. Although spring had arrived, it was still too cool to sit outside, so the heat was on.

Sunday lunch with a few close friends, sitting by the water chatting and sipping
rak
ı
,
used to be one of İrfan’s favorite activities. He still laughed at the jokes, but had lost his enthusiasm for this pastime. The same question kept coming up in his mind—could he change his life if he so wished?

Someone was telling a joke. Jokes about the war in the southeast had recently become popular, and İrfan pretended to be amused.

“One day PKK guerrillas set an ambush for a unit of soldiers that they know always passed by the same spot at seven o’clock every evening. Half an hour goes by and nobody arrives at the ambush … an hour and there’s still no one in sight. Then one of the guerrillas says worriedly, ‘I hope nothing has happened to our boys!’”

Everybody laughed, and Metin, a banker, continued with another joke—speaking through his nose to imitate a Kurdish accent.

“PKK guerrillas raid a village and kill everyone except for an old woman and an old man. One of the guerrillas points his gun at the woman and asks, ‘What’s your name?’

“‘Fatima,’ says the hapless woman.

“The guerrilla tells her that his mother’s name is also Fatima so he won’t kill her.

“He turns to the old man and asks, ‘What’s your name?’

“Quivering in fear, the terrified man stutters, ‘My name’s Omar—but everyone calls me Fatima.’”

The group erupted into laughter. İrfan had not heard this joke before, and he found it amusing.

Before joking about war had become popular, jokes about sex had been the norm. Women sometimes told bawdy jokes, but if the stories were too risqué, they might pause coyly and look at their husbands for approval. When a man told such stories, he would lower his voice and use figures of speech to cloak the meaning. Sex, İrfan believed, dominated the subconscious of all social classes in Turkey.

İrfan was not good at telling jokes. He generally failed to emphasize the right word at the right moment, and he did not have a talent for mime. Nevertheless, he decided to share a joke he remembered from his time in the States.

“Do you know which word the great Jewish thinkers used to explain the meaning of the world?

“Moses said, ‘God.’ Jesus said, ‘Love.’ Marx said, ‘Money.’ Freud said, ‘Sex.’ Finally, Einstein stated, ‘Everything is relative.’”