Hasan Toptas - Reckless

‘Time to light the fire, my son,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘The house needs heating up.’

Kenan knelt down, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Placing a few pine cones amongst the logs, he promptly applied his lighter, and once he was sure the fire had caught, he stood up again.

Cevriye Hanım stood next to him, watching his every move, as if she were afraid he might do something wrong.

‘With the weather we’re having, our guest might not wish to stay inside,’ she said then. ‘If it were up to me, I’d set up the table in the courtyard. I’m going off to help Nefise. You and Besim can see to the table in the meantime.’

‘We’ll do that,’ said Kenan.

Before long he had moved the Formica table in the courtyard into the shade of the mulberry tree. After covering it with the blue floral tablecloth, they sprinkled the ground with a flask of water to keep down the dust.

Then Kenan went off to get Ziya; leaving the courtyard, a cigarette between his lips, he swiftly made his way to the barn.

After he had left, Cevriye Hanım settled herself in front of the stove, and now and then she turned to frown at Nefise. Every time she did so, she seemed about to say something, but she never did. Every time she swallowed instead, and turned her eyes back to the gözlemes cooking on the stove.

Only when the work was done and cleared away could she say it. They’d swept off the flour and washed their hands and now the two of them were sitting at the table.

Leaning over, she said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t dress up for our guest.’ She spoke softly, as if sharing a secret. ‘As you know, my girl, when an apple hangs high, it is asking to be stoned.’

‘But I didn’t dress up,’ said Nefise.

Cevriye Hanım sat up and then leaned back on her chair, and gave Nefise a thorough inspection.

‘What can I know?’ she asked finally, her face clouding with shame. ‘How can I know what you’ll look like to him when he arrives?’

Nefise gazed out over the white plastic chair as if it were a cloud wafting off into the distance, and said nothing.

‘Did you brew the tea?’ asked Cevriye Hanım, to change the subject.

‘I brewed the tea, Mother,’ said Nefise. ‘And I prepared a jug of ayran . Because he might just prefer to drink ayran .’

Just then the neighbour’s son came tumbling into the courtyard. Taking a few more steps, he stopped to catch his breath. Leaning forward, and placing his hands on his knees, and in a trembling voice that matched his general state of panic, he said, ‘My mother’s had more pangs. Hurry. Hurry!’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Cevriye Hanım. Turning to Nefise, she said, ‘You’d better go and see what’s happening. It wouldn’t do for me not to be here at home right now.’

Nefise jumped to her feet and ran to the courtyard gate.

‘Wait a minute!’ Cevriye Hanım cried, rushing after her. ‘Take a few gözlemes with you. Make sure she eats them when they’re still hot, the poor thing.’

Nefise turned around and piled a few gözlemes on to a little tray, which she covered with a white cloth, after which she vanished with the boy who was waiting for her at the gate,

Cevriye Hanım went back to sit down in the silent courtyard, and for a long time she did not move. Her thoughts went to her neighbour Fatma, and her pangs, and to her helpless helper Nefise, and to Numan, who had the face of a bandit, and who had been haunting their door for years now hoping to marry Nefise, and his brother Cabbar. And then, for a moment, she frowned and looked fiercely into the distance, as if Numan were standing there before her, pressing her with all manner of promises. Then she thought, no one could ever go that far, my dear. Everyone has some propriety. Then she stood up and strolled over to the chickens; bending over, she watched them for some time as they moved across the ground like little strobes of light. And as she watched, she spoke to them, very softly: ‘Hey there, you blessed creatures. You have souls, too, don’t you know?’ Unruffled, the chickens continued on their way, brushing against her skirt from time to time as they pecked at the ground. And Cevriye Hanım walked on, very slowly, first to survey the onions lying at the foot of the courtyard wall, and then back to the table. Sitting herself down on one of the white plastic chairs, she looked over her left shoulder at the courtyard gate.

And then suddenly, as if it had been waiting for her to do just that, the gate opened up, and in came Kenan, with Ziya just behind him.

‘So, Mother,’ said Kenan, as she rose to her feet. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my friend.’

Ziya walked over to kiss Cevriye Hanım’s hand.

Though shaded by her headscarf, her unblinking eyes shone as brightly as if he were a long-lost relative.

‘Welcome, my child, you have come in peace. You’re here at last, so please, come in.’

They sat down at the table.

And still Cevriye Hanım kept her eyes on Ziya. She was staring at him with such affection as to put any man ill at ease. As she searched for something to say, she cleared her throat now and again.

‘Where is Nefise?’ asked Kenan, as he looked around him.

‘She’s at the neighbour’s,’ Cevriye Hanım replied. ‘So you see to the tea, why don’t you.’

Kenan stood up.

And as he did so, Cevriye Hanım turned back to Ziya. ‘My child,’ she said, ‘we count you as one of the family. Because for years now, you have been remembered, with love, and longing, and gratitude. So please, relax, and make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ziya, looking ashamed. ‘Thank you so much.’

And then, in a voice as soft as silk, Cevriye Hanım asked after his parents, and his relatives.

‘I lost my parents years ago,’ said Ziya. ‘And quite a few of my relatives, too. They’re all gone, I’m afraid. A few of my uncle’s children are still with us, but we don’t see much of each other. I’m not even sure where they live. It’s the way things are now. Everyone’s scattered.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Cevriye Hanım, nodding slightly as she stared into the middle distance.

There followed a short silence.

‘I know only too well,’ Cevriye Hanım then said. ‘This relative business, there’s no way to solve it. Sometimes you crumble inside to keep the bonds alive, and sometimes you let the bonds crumble just to keep yourself together. One way or the other, it keeps most people hanging. It leaves them in the lurch. And also, we all have to suffer the same number of deaths as we have relatives. And that brings a lot of pain. And what a shame it is that there are those who only make peace with their relatives once they’ve lost someone. Yes, that’s the way it goes. Those are the games that life plays with us. Or maybe it’s the noise of life that makes us so neglectful.’

‘What noise?’ asked Kenan, as he placed the tea tray on the trivet.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘We’re just sitting here having a friendly chat, that’s all.’

Kenan smiled.

‘May it continue for ever.’

Then Besim joined them. Bowing his head in embarrassment, he walked over to Ziya and held out his hand. And for a moment, Ziya thought of the son who had died in his wife’s stomach. As he stood up, he felt a weakness in his knees. Grabbing the side of the table, he looked the boy over, as he thought: ‘So if he had lived, he too would be a strapping young man like this by now.’ As he shook the boy’s hand, he felt almost as if he was touching his own son, and he shivered.

‘Besim is my one and only grandchild,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘His mother and father work in Germany.’

The tulip-shaped glasses were waiting on the table now, all lined up in a row. After pouring the tea, Kenan set the tray of gözlemes in the centre of the table and unwrapped the cloth. Besim helped him, taking great care as he passed out the purple-patterned porcelain plates, the knives and forks and paper napkins. And then, for a time, they sat there in the shade of the mulberry tree. With a lilt to her voice, Cevriye Hanım told Ziya about her village, and her relatives; she spoke of her childhood, of days spent wandering the hyacinth-scented mountains with herds of goats, of nights in horsehair tents which rocked to the distant cries of wolves, and then she told him of the pine tree under which she had first seen her late husband. She told him how her heart had pounded, boom boom boom, and how, one spring day, she had come to be married, fully veiled atop a chestnut horse. She told him how kind and courteous and highly regarded both her late in-laws had been, how they had treated her well from the very first day, and how they had died, much too soon. How she had packed up her food each morning and slung it over her back to go and till the fields, while at the same time caring for her children in their red wooden cradles. How they had grown quickly out of their unruly childhood ways to become such lovely people. And then she talked about her eldest daughter Ayşe and her husband Fehrettin, who had left their child to go to Germany, just to earn a crust of bread, and how they had been living there for so many years now, missing their country all the while. And after she had spoken of all this, she came around to Kenan’s military service.