She saw her father in floods of tears; she was astonished. She hadn’t been able to understand what could be worse than death, why her father wished his son dead.
‘Just look at you!’ roared her mother. ‘Look at you! A grown man wailing like a fox! Why are you hollering like that? Weren’t your entire clan village guards? I mean, those that stayed in the village. Didn’t they save themselves by being village guards? Didn’t they all see some money in their pockets? Village guard or those who confess — don’t they both serve the state? At least wait a bit. Let’s wait and see if the news is accurate. Would it have been better to learn he was dead? Stop and listen for a moment, find out what really happened and why.’
‘I wish he were dead! There isn’t such a thing in the code of honour as betrayal. There aren’t turncoats or traitors in our family. If he’s a village warden, he stays a village warden. If he takes to the mountains, he stays in the mountains. Now we are all in deep trouble!’
Then her father had left. Nobody knew where he had gone. Her second mother worried, but her mother said, ‘I know him. He goes crazy, and then he calms down. He’ll be back, don’t fret, girl. Have a few nights’ rest.’
Zelal had sensed the bitter reproach in her mother’s voice and the repressed sadness, and she felt really upset.
Her mother was right; her father returned in two days. He didn’t say where he had been or whom he had seen. They pretended nothing had happened. Nobody had seen or heard anything. It was as though Mesut Abi had not surrendered. The children were cautioned not to say anything to anyone. They were threatened with being nailed to the ceiling by their ears if they let anything slip out.
And then one day towards winter her Mesut Abi dropped by. Three people came, three men, two of them fully armed. Her Mesut Abi had lost weight, but he looked very fit and handsome. He was full of airs and graces as though he had become a commander. Those who saw the armed men took flight and hid. Zelal didn’t run away; she fixed her deep-blue eyes on the men. She couldn’t go straight up to her brother. She had missed him very much and wanted to throw her arms around him. She took a step forward, timidly. Then she remembered her father’s words the day he had cried: collaborator … caş … caş … traitor … She froze. Her Mesut Abi smiled; he always had a beautiful smile. Zelal was his favourite among his siblings and he was hers.
‘You have become as tall as me. You are ready to become a bride, my girl!’ he said and stroked her hair. She had never heard her brother speak Turkish before, and she felt awkward. ‘Go and call Mother. Tell her Mesut is here and wants to kiss her hand.’
She didn’t move. She didn’t say, ‘Your wish is my command, brother.’ Instead, she said, ‘My father has sworn to kill you on sight.’ She regretted her words as soon as she uttered them. She was so frightened. She couldn’t understand how those words had slipped out, how she had used such strong words.
‘Is our father here?’
‘No, he’s gone to town.’
‘Good. You say he’ll kill me when he sees me, so we’re all right.’ His voice was sarcastic. He was obviously making fun of his father and his little sister. ‘Go and tell my mother. This place is just a tiny hole with five or six houses! Where the hell is everyone?’
‘Mother will be frightened when she sees armed men.’
‘Come on, girl. Buck up, and call her. Don’t make me go in there like this, or we’ll turn the place upside down! Tell my mother, “He was passing by and came to kiss your hand.” Come on, move! And give these brothers something to drink, some ayran, tea or whatever.’
When she went inside and called her mother, she didn’t say ‘Keke Mesut hatiye! Mesut Abi is here!’ but she called out, ‘Your son is here!’ Something had happened to her Mesut Abi. Even his voice had changed. He talked in a imperious manner as if he were giving orders. Something bad had happened to her Mesut Abi. She remembered how her father had been so upset, how he had been beside himself with grief when he learnt that his son had confessed. Perhaps Father was right, she thought. He is no longer loving and affectionate. Even his smile has changed. She couldn’t tell whether he was showing off to the other men or whether he was afraid of them. He has become strange. There is something alien and cruel about him. And what is that fear in his eyes as he struts around defiantly? What is the reason for him turning his head from one side to the other? What is the reason for his restlessness? What does confessing mean? It must be something bad, like caş or bastard. She remembered; she had seen it on her way to school. They had killed a man and thrown his body on to the road. They had written Caş on his forehead in red paint. Her father had said ‘Caş’ as he sobbed. ‘Caş!’
My mother rushed to the door without even pulling down her skirt that she had tucked into her waist. I ran up the hill towards the boulders, leaping between the adobe roofs like a goat so that I wouldn’t have to see mother and son embracing, so that I didn’t have to bring those men tea or anything. I amused myself counting, adding and subtracting the pebbles on the way. I wanted to forget my Mesut Abi. Whether my father shot him or not, either way it would still be devastating. He was as good as dead anyway. I felt in my heart the grief of my brother as well as that of my father. I was a child at the time.
You are sleeping with your head on my lap. Who are you? What kind of sleep is this? You are bleeding. In the village, they used to a say a wounded man should not sleep. There were always people being shot; by soldiers, by the guerrillas, because of vendettas or land disputes … They used to try to keep the wounded awake. They wouldn’t let them lose consciousness. They used to call it the sleep of death. Is this your sleep of death? How were you shot? Who are you? It is almost dark in here; I can’t quite see your face. I’m feeling with my fingertips to get an idea of what you look like. I’m stroking your hair. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to remain here all by myself. I’m frightened.
When he woke up or came round, his head was still buried in that soft, warm pillow. Someone was gently stroking his hair as his mother used to do. At first he thought he was dreaming. He was in pain, his shoulder was killing him and there was no sensation in the fingers of his wounded arm. He tried to straighten up and work out where he was. The pain shot into his chest, making him moan. He made another attempt to get up. It was then that he saw the girl.
‘Tu birîndarî, tu ji ser hişê xewê, çû û kete xewê. You are wounded. You passed out here, fell asleep,’ says the girl in Kurdish. Her voice flows softly like limpid waters or snow melting in the spring.
It is then that Mahmut understands that he is where he shouldn’t be. So I couldn’t make it to the woods. I fell where I was. And what about this girl? He can’t bring himself to ask if she is some sort of a sprite. If I do, she will think I’m afraid. He tries to get up, leaning on her for support.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Whatever it is that you are doing, I’m doing the same.’
Well, just look at her! Mahmut adds a wry smile to his voice. ‘So were you in the fighting, too?’