Ömer sends a sign of his passion, his love and his respect in a single phrase to the woman that he cannot embrace and kiss right there, whose net of hair he cannot get entangled in. A sentence that he murmurs from the heart to himself, that has not been coated with sugar, dipped in the sauce of mock respect, that does not give solace: ‘When I can see this place, this land with your eyes and embrace it with your heart then I will have found what I am looking for. When I feel in my heart that Soğukpinar is not just a few poplars and a few willows.’
Instead of the thoughts that he could not express, he says in a loud voice, ‘I shall learn to love these parts.’
Jiyan comes over to him and sits on the broken wooden chair. She tries to match the yellow flower in her hand with the flowers on the wax cloth. ‘The fact that you are even making the effort is important, Ömer Eren. There has been many a person who has understood us in mind and has extolled us with speeches, many a politician, intellectual and writer such as you. We must not be unfair to any of them. However, because they have not understood with their hearts, because their hearts and language have not reached our hearts, they have always remained outsiders. Perhaps we have done them an injustice. We have not been able to open up our hearts enough to them either. Isn’t it like that with love, too? It is easy for the strong one, the one who dominates, to love and trust. Those who are meek and more submissive find it hard to love, hard to trust.’
Trout fried in butter, a salad with plenty of onion and an appetizer with yogurt and garlic resembling manti with bulgur arrive at the table. The man rushing around with a napkin in his hand, trying to please the customers, says something in Kurdish.
‘The bread is not fresh. They had not kneaded dough because they were not expecting anyone today. His wife is making fresh kete inside,’ Jiyan translates.
‘The trout from these waters is unique,’ boasts the step-sister.
‘If you were to ask us, we have nothing that is unique,’ says Jiyan mockingly.
Ömer recalls that wherever he goes and is treated to trout he hears the same sentiments. Wherever trout is the only fish available, the locals boast about how amazing it is. Is it that the less one has to boast about the more valuable it becomes? His feels a faint stab in his heart. I, too, should like to believe that my trout was unique, I should like to believe that what I have is unique, he thinks with a pang of sorrow.
‘Well, now it’s time for a drink of rakı,’ says the brother-in-law with glee. He calls out to the man, ‘Bring us rakı, Not that state rakı or whatever. Some of ours if there is any.’
The colour of the rakı that was brought in a water bottle is slightly yellow.
‘It is a sort of bootleg rakı. I advise you not to add water to it, Ömer Bey. First try it like this.’
Ömer takes a forkful of trout. The fish really is delicious, and it has much whiter flesh than the trout he has eaten in the past. He takes a sip of the rakı. It glides down his throat leaving a slight burning sensation. He admits to himself that he was expecting a much stronger, spirituous, unpleasant taste. We tend to think that the other person’s fish and drink do not measure up to ours. Even if we pretend to have liked them, our praise is just for politeness, a show of cordiality.
He seems to sense the source of Jiyan’s hidden anger, her distance and her open rebellion which she cannot rid herself of even when they are at their closest.
The fish, the rakı and the water filled from the spring all taste divine. Real butter has been spread on the hot kete. The chattering poplar leaves turn their never-ending talk into song and the little bee-eaters defy the crows. Jiyan’s wild hair flies around; it ripples as she talks, as she shakes her head. Ömer Eren understands that without realizing Soğukpinar’s beauty, without tasting the healing power hidden in its water, without being in love with Jiyan, it cannot be said that he knows the area and likes it, and if it is said it won’t go beyond words that remain on the edge of his lips. I can stay here for the rest of my life, at the water’s edge listening to the rustling music of the poplars and stroking Jiyan’s hair. When the snow melts and the snowdrops shoot up through the green grass, while looking for coolness in the summer heat, in autumn when the leaves of the poplars assume the colours of sadness and fly around, and when the snow settles and the wolves come down, I can stay in the hut by the fire I have lit. A whole life is not a very long time for a man who has reached his mid-fifties. I will stay here; not as the other or the one who alienates and not as a stranger, just as me, just Ömer Eren…
That day, when he returned to the hotel towards evening, pretty drunk, pretty tired but with a heart that for a long time had not felt so light, he stroked the ginger cat that was dozing in the old morocco leather armchair near the reception desk. ‘What’s its name?’ he asked the youth responsible for room service who was wandering around. ‘Virik,’ said the boy shrugging his shoulders and grinning.
‘And what does Virik mean?’
‘How should I know, abi? It’s just a cat’s name.’
As the boy chased the cat away with his long-handled mop, he remembered something and added, ‘They came from the military. The Commander sent a note. They could not reach you on your phone. It’s on the counter under the customer records book.’ He came over to Ömer, bent his head slightly and whispered in his ear. ‘These days there are a lot of people asking about you, abi, both civilians and military men.’
‘What do you tell them when they ask?’
‘I say, he’s writing a book in his room.’
‘Even if I’m not in my room?’
‘Well … how will they know? If they go up and have a look, I’ll say, so he went out without my noticing.’
‘Why do you say that then?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders, ‘You’re Jiyan Abla’s friend, that’s why. Here they get suspicious of foreigners. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’
Ömer opened the envelope. This time the note from the military was not an invitation for a chat; it was an official summons to the Commander’s office around noon the following day. The Commander had not allowed other units to do the interview or questioning because of Ömer Eren’s reputation and because of the good relationship they had formed between them. Apparently he preferred to resolve the problem himself. Ömer thought, I’ve stayed long enough to attract attention — although it hadn’t been three weeks since he had arrived. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket and went up to his room.
The bedroom was hot and stuffy. He opened the window wide and drew back the net curtains. He threw his dusty shoes on the floor and lay down on the bed just as he was.
When he awoke it was past midnight. His head was thumping, his tongue was furred, his throat dry. He felt terrible. That homemade raki had really knocked him out, he thought. Yet how good everything was at the edge of the water. How easily the sips of raki had glided down his throat. He emptied the rest of the water in the bottom of the plastic bottle on the little table in front of the window into a glass and began to look for the painkillers he had bought from Jiyan’s shop the first night he arrived in town. He rummaged through his trouser pockets, the side pockets of his bags and the empty drawers in which he was sure he had not put anything. After that first night he had not needed painkillers. He thought that perhaps he had left the box at the shop on the counter after he had taken the pills with the water Jiyan had provided. He washed his face at the basin. He needed some ice-cold water, but the tap water was almost warm. He decided to go downstairs and ask the boy on night duty for cold water and to send him to one of the two chemists in the market or town — whichever was open — to buy some analgesics for his headache.