Hasan Toptas - Reckless

‘It’s not the cemetery that’s close to your house,’ said Ramazan. ‘It’s your house that’s close to the cemetery.’

Ziya said nothing and carried on walking.

‘It’s in just the right place,’ said Ramazan, after they had walked a few paces. ‘You know what they say. Build your house near the cemetery, and far from the mosque.’

‘I do know,’ Ziya said.

And that was the last thing either said until they reached the village.

Here Ziya parted company with Ramazan and went on to Kenan’s house. He offered his condolences to Cevriye Hanım, Nefise and Besim. And then he walked through the crowd of wailing women and their white headscarves and went out into the courtyard. For the next few hours, he paced back and forth under the mulberry tree, a cigarette in his hand. He had no idea what to do. At nightfall he put out his cigarette and walked through the crowd of women and went up to Cevriye Hanım. He found her sitting on the edge of the divan. She had a black headband lined with yellow on her forehead. Her eyes were blood-red from crying, as she stared into space. Leaning down, he whispered, ‘Shall I take over some food for Uncle Cevval?’

‘Take it over, if you wish,’ she said, in a voice that trembled like a leaf. ‘But don’t tell him about Kenan. Whatever you do, don’t tell him.’

So Besim and Ziya went together to Uncle Cevval’s house that night. In silence they walked past the sheepdog lying at the foot of the wall opposite; and under this dog’s gaze they stepped inside. As Uncle Cevval sat quietly on the divan, eating his food, he asked after Kenan a few times, as always.

And Besim said, ‘He’s feeling poorly.’

When he asked the same question the next day, he got the same answer.

But on the third day, Uncle Cevval refused to believe them, for some reason. He sat there as if someone very far away was answering his question, and suddenly he stopped listening. ‘That’s a pile of shit. He’s not poorly. You’re lying to me.’ As he spoke, two tears fell down his cheeks. And then Besim seemed close to tears, too. Bowing his head, he kept gulping.

And that was why, when they were outside again, Ziya patted him gently on the shoulder, and then on the head. As he did so, he felt Kenan’s hand reaching out through his to Besim’s father’s hand, all the way from Germany, and that unnerved him.

For months and months, he and Besim went back and forth to Uncle Cevval’s house, every day without fail.

When the weather grew warmer, and everything was green again, and the leaves returned to the vines and the trees, and the earth sang with morning glories, poppies, delphiniums, campion, ox-tongue, vetch and butterflies, that was when the brambles came alive with clacking grouse, while the village swooned to the scent of thyme and gum, and sunlight soared into the mountains’ deepest shadows. The world had opened itself to spring, of course, but Cevriye Hanım, who had yet to remove that headband from her forehead, was still lost inside the day that had taken away her son, and she wandered through her house like a woman possessed. And there were times when she would mumble, ‘Oh, Kâzım the Bellows Man, come back to the oily bullets.’ Each time he went to the house to fetch Uncle Cevval’s food, he would find her walking around like this, muttering curses. And each time he ached for her, though he had no idea what to say, what to do.

In the end, and without telling Cevriye Hanım, Ziya went to talk to Kâzım the Bellows Man. Besim took him over late one morning, pointing out a double door before backing away. And Ziya walked through the shade of the nettle tree, and when he reached the door he knocked a few times on its blackened boards.

‘Come on in, Ziya Bey,’ Kâzım called from inside.

Surprised that Kâzım had managed to see through these high walls, Ziya paused for a moment. Then, doing his best to hide his confusion and excitement, he opened the door and stepped inside. Kâzım was sitting in the left-hand corner of his courtyard on a high wooden bench. When he saw Ziya, he put out his cigarette and stood up, struggling to keep his balance, as if he were drunk or very ill. He staggered over to Ziya. His daughter, his two sons and his wife all came running into the courtyard: since Kenan’s death the whole family had been under attack and so they were always on guard.

‘Welcome,’ said Kâzım, offering his hand.

For a moment Ziya hesitated. He was not sure if he could extend a hand to the man who had caused Kenan’s death. Then he pulled himself together. With some reluctance, he extended his hand. But as they were shaking hands, Kâzım averted his eyes. He looked very pale; he had sunken cheeks. He looked taller than before and his voice was fogged, as if he was speaking from behind a curtain, or from very far away.

‘I’ve come to talk to you,’ Ziya said.

‘Let’s talk,’ Kâzım replied. ‘Come sit down with me on the bench.’

He relaxed somewhat once they were seated, but he kept looking at Ziya with anxious eyes, as if he could read his inner turmoil on Ziya’s face.

‘How did you know it was me knocking on your door?’ asked Ziya.

‘There was no need to see you,’ Kâzım said. ‘No one in this village ever knocks. They just push open the door and come in. When I heard that knock on the door I knew at once that it was you. And anyway, I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I guessed that you would come to see me sooner or later.’

‘I see,’ said Ziya.

Then they both took out their cigarettes and lit up. Ziya was not sure how to open the subject, so for a while he looked at the barn next to the courtyard, and the straw baskets hanging from its front wall, and the coil of rope, and the shovel leaning against the door.

Then he asked, ‘What happened between you and Kenan?’

For a time Kâzım said nothing, as he traced a line between the little flowers on his cushion.

‘Last year,’ he said finally, ‘Kenan took a loan from me, so that he could finish work on the barn. That’s what happened between us.’

‘He took a loan from you for the barn?’

‘Yes, the loan was for the barn. He needed the money. The work was only half done. All the materials were just sitting there. And I took pity on Kenan, and so I lent him seven thousand lira.’

‘Seven thousand lira?’ Ziya gasped. ‘Why did he have to take money from you, when I was sending him all the money he needed?’

‘I know. You sent twenty thousand. But Kenan gave five thousand of it to a builder from town. He found this man and bargained with him and put down a deposit, but then suddenly this builder vanished. He was just another one of those conmen, I guess! And that was it — your five thousand lira gone. And Kenan had already laid out twenty-two thousand lira for this barn. In other words, two thousand more than you sent him.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Ziya. He looked doubtfully at Kâzım. ‘The day I arrived, Kenan told me that I’d sent him more money than he’d needed in the end. He gave me back a hundred and fifty lira.’

Kâzım smiled faintly.

‘He gave you that money to be convincing,’ he said finally. ‘He was a good boy. An angel. May he rest in peace.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Ziya, shaking his head. ‘Why didn’t Kenan tell me any of this? He knew I was prepared to pay whatever he needed for the barn. If he’d told me, I could have sent him more money.’

‘That was my thinking, too, when I lent him the money,’ Kâzım said. ‘I thought that he would take the seven thousand lira from you when you arrived. But he didn’t do this. He wore himself out trying to earn it back with his own efforts. This was impossible, of course. Go out to the forest every night and cut up wood and load it on to a donkey, and then ride all the way out to another village on this plain and sell it for thirty or forty lira — how are you ever going to repay a loan like that, let alone keep a family going?’