Birds Without Wings (65 page)

CHAPTER 74

Lieutenant Granitola’s Occupation (1)

The column of soldiers marched wearily and out of step into Eskibahçe. At their head perspired Lieutenant Gofredo Granitola, distant relation of a distinguished Sicilian family, and late veteran of the battles of Isonzo and Caporetto. He and his men had tramped for several days, all the way from Telmessos, and they were not in the mood either for flirting or playing football, or, indeed, for playing mandolins and singing choruses from operas. They had been given a map that was not even notionally accurate, and had had the greatest difficulty in asking anyone directions. In the first place, not one of the soldiers knew any Turkish, and in the second place the civilian population ran away and hid at their every approach. On account of mass desertion from both the army and the labour battalions, the countryside was now plagued with bands of outlaws, Greeks, Circassians, Armenians and Turks happily competing in brigandage. As a consequence the people had learned to dread the very sight of an armed man, especially one in the remnants of a uniform. For lack of sensible advice, the soldiers had marched many unnecessary miles, and were by now hungry, blistered, thirsty, filthy, stinging with sunburn and more than disgruntled. “This place had better be important,” observed Lieutenant Granitola to Sergeant Oliva, more than once, “because if it turns out to be another little fleapit, I swear by the Virgin that I am going to have to shoot someone.”

They had been sent to Eskibahçe on the grounds that it looked like an important town on the map, and therefore ought to have a garrison in order to partake fully in the rights and privileges of a proper Italian occupation, and it was, then, with a sense of relief and pleasure that they passed the tilting whitewashed graves of the Muslims and emerged from the pine forest to behold, at the entrance to the town, the neoclassical drinking fountain and watering house newly and munificently bestowed
upon the town in 1919 by Georgio P. Theodorou, for the relief and benefit of all.

The troops smiled with benign fatigue at an old woman in the shade of her doorway, who, petrified with consternation, suddenly stopped whirling her pancake around its stick, and let it fall to the floor. She picked it up, ran inside the house and out of the back door. Into the meydan she went, pancake still in hand, spreading word of the invasion.

“Halt the men and fall them out,” Granitola instructed his sergeant. “We’ll take half an hour.”

The men came to a shambolic and exhausted halt, and stood at ease whilst the sergeant issued his instructions: half an hour only, drink plenty of water, have a wash, and no wandering off, or, by the Virgin, he would come down on them like a thunderbolt from God His Very Self, and he’d send them home to their mothers with their balls torn off and stuffed up their arses. These threats from Sergeant Pietro Oliva were taken in good part by the men. He was a tall man with humorous dark brown eyes, black hair that receded from a high forehead and the learned air of a Florentine priest.

A bellyful of water and half an hour’s rest on the hillside above the pines restored the men’s morale to the point where they felt revived, and by then it was almost unnecessary to take them into the town, because the town had come to them. They found themselves surrounded by a silent and intensely curious group of old men and tiny children, as well as a few women who, for decency’s sake, were holding their scarves across their noses and mouths. There were also the distorted shapes of a few younger men, those who had been maimed in the war, and been fortunate or resolute enough to find their way home. Dozens of pairs of brown eyes watched the soldiers intently and unblinkingly, with much the same pointless attention with which people watch dogs copulating.

Word had got about that some proper soldiers had arrived, who were not brigands at all, and in truth the townspeople were glad to see them. All but two of their gendarmes had been called up during the war, many of them to fight with resolution and success at Gallipoli, and since then it had been very difficult to get any protection from outlaws. Iskander the Potter had been called out many a time, on account of his ownership of the magnificent gun made for him in Smyrna by Abdul Chrysostomos, but much to his frustration, it had always been too late, and he had never actually had the opportunity to shoot anyone with it. Thus far he had used it for hunting, and, after every firing of his kiln, he had also had the satisfaction
of setting up the cracked or otherwise failed pots upon the wall, and blasting them to fragments. If there was an outlaw to be shot, it seemed that Rustem Bey always got there first, as if luck had a snobbish deference for rank.

Granitola surveyed the onlookers and ordered his sergeant: “Make them go away. They make me feel like something grotesque in a museum.”

Sergeant Oliva got up from the shade of his thorn oak, and waved his arms in the faces of the people, exclaiming “
Via! Via! Vaffanculo!
Sons of whores! Bitches! Pigpricks!”

The people, who could clearly discern Oliva’s good nature, in spite of his attempt at ferocity, moved back a little, but stirred no further. “They think you’re swatting flies,” observed Lieutenant Granitola, drily, “and I feel that they don’t understand your pleasantries and compliments.” With an air of dutiful resignation the Lieutenant got to his feet, and told the sergeant to call the men together and form ranks, so that he could address them.

“Right, men,” he said, walking up and down with his hands behind his back, “listen in. We are going to go into the centre of the town to occupy the square, after which we will have to set about finding billets and organising supplies. From this point you will march smartly and in a proper military manner, in order to create the correct military impression. The correct impression is one of implacable efficiency, undeviating purpose and indomitable courage. You will not look from side to side, you will not gawp at sights of interest, and when we arrive in the square you will halt smartly and ground arms smartly. Everything must be done to create the impression of soldiers with a decisive air of good order, who mean business. I am not expecting any trouble, but you must be on the watch for it, so I am expecting you to be on the alert at all times. Any questions?”

There were no questions forthcoming, and so he nodded to Sergeant Oliva, who bawled
“Attenti!”
and forthwith the soldiers were marched into the town followed by rangy dogs, prancing children who sloped sticks over their shoulders in ape of rifles, and old folk and
blessés de guerre
who tried to keep up.

The meydan turned out to be only a few yards away, around the next corner at the bottom of the town, whilst the rest of the town spread up the natural amphitheatre formed by the hillsides. Consequently, the soldiers arrived under the planes with the disappointing and anti-climactic feeling of not having had a chance to create the proper military impression. They stood at ease listening to the lieutenant telling them to wait under the
planes whilst he got things sorted out, aware that he did not really have any idea what he was supposed to do next, and enjoying his confident display of bluff. It is always a pleasure for the common soldier to observe the discomfiture of officers.

As the men fell out and began their occupation by occupying the stone benches under the trees, Sergeant Oliva approached Lieutenant Granitola and said, “Permission to speak, sir.”

“Permission granted, Sergeant.”

“There are two armed gendarmes approaching, sir. Shall we shoot them?” He asked this question with mischievous seriousness, knowing quite well that Granitola would say what he did, which was: “Certainly not, Sergeant. Our instructions are to work with the normal civil authorities as much as possible. We will make them welcome.”

“As you say, sir,” responded the sergeant, affecting surprise at such signal lack of bellicosity.

The two gendarmes, the weakest and oldest of the town’s former detachment, who consequently had been spared call-up, were feeling outnumbered and trepidatious, although no one had ever doubted their courage. They had no idea who these troops were, and had certainly received no information or instructions from the governor or anyone else. They had not even heard that the Italians had occupied Antalya.

“What shall we do?” the old one was asking the even older, who replied through gritted teeth, “Clench your arse, and don’t even fart, in case you shit yourself.”

When the two gendarmes came face to face with the two Italians, there was an initial mismatch of manners, for the Turks performed a respectful Ottoman salute, and the Italians held out their hands to be shaken. When these manoeuvres failed, the situation was reversed, and the Italians attempted clumsy versions of the Ottoman salute, whilst the Turks awkwardly held out their hands. This led, of course, to laughter, and in this way the ice was providentially broken. Before long there was fraternisation, and from the time that the Italians arrived to the time that they left, the two gendarmes had not a clue as to who the invaders were, knowing only that they were proper soldiers and were quite friendly, and were very good shots.

The initial point of contact occurred when professional interest caused the gendarmes to want to take a look at the weapons of the Italian soldiers, and the Italian soldiers to want to take a look at the pistols of the gendarmes. There was much resort to dumbshow as instructions about
operation were exchanged, and from then on there was never any trouble between them.

One of the gendarmes had the very good idea of sending a small boy to fetch their aga, Rustem Bey, who would surely know what to do about the new arrivals. The latter was in the haremlik of his house, cleaning his hunting rifle whilst Leyla Hanim sang to him a lullaby which she had composed on the oud. She had recently come to realise that she would probably never have children, and so she sang her new song with a certain affecting lachrimosity. “It would be good if that music could be written down,” said Rustem Bey, “otherwise it will be forgotten, and that would be a shame.”

Rustem Bey was much thinner than he had been in the years before the Great War, because times were hard even for him, and he still spent much of his time out in the mountains hunting, an occupation that was nowadays especially dangerous because of all the bandits that infested them. Nonetheless, he created an instantly striking impression upon the Italians when he came down into the meydan. He was dressed in a very well-cut suit that had been made for him by a Greek tailor in Smyrna, and to this Western garb he had added a red satin sash to accommodate his silver pistols and yataghan. In his right hand he carried a silver-topped cane. He wore polished knee-high riding boots, and on his head he wore a maroon fez, well brushed. With the exception of his waxed moustache, he was cleanshaven, and smelled of new lemon cologne. Despite this refined appearance, he was also very sunburned, had a soldierly bearing, and was clearly strong and fit. He was every inch a fine Ottoman gentleman, and Lieutenant Granitola immediately felt both respectful of him and at ease.

Rustem Bey conscientiously shook hands first with Lieutenant Granitola, then with Sergeant Oliva and the two corporals, then with every one of the thirty soldiers, greeting each with a polite “Hoş geldiniz.” All of them felt as though they had been ceremoniously honoured, and wished that they knew how to reply.

Watched by nearly everyone in the town, Rustem Bey conducted a kind of negotiation with Granitola. “Who are you?” he asked, in Turkish, and receiving no response other than perplexity, he said, “Ismim Rustem Beyefendi.” He tapped his chest as he told them his name, repeating it, “Rustem Beyefendi.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Granitola. “Your name is Rustem Beyefendi? Ah, yes, very good. My name is Lieutenant Gofredo Granitola, Lieutenant Gofredo Granitola.
Capisci?”

“Capisci,” repeated Rustem Bey.

“No, no, not capisci. Lieutenant Gofredo Granitola.”

“Granitola?”

“Sì,
sü
, Granitola.”

“Ah, Granitola.” Rustem Bey beamed with enlightenment.

The sergeant pointed to his own chest, and said, “Oliva,” sensibly sparing the details of his rank and his other names. “Oliva,” repeated Rustem Bey, who then went through the same ritual with every one of the soldiers. He then stood back and, pointing to each soldier in turn, repeated their names from memory.

“The man is a phenomenon, Sergeant,” whispered Granitola.

“Certainly is, sir,” said Oliva, who, like all the other soldiers, was profoundly impressed by this mnemonic feat.

“You should have been a diplomat,” said Granitola to Rustem Bey, knowing perfectly well that the latter would not understand.

“Are you Greek?” asked Rustem Bey. He used the Turkish word “Yunanli,” however, and received no intelligent response. He pointed to himself and said, “Ottoman,” and then changed this to “Turk.” He swept his hand to indicate the assembled soldiers, and then raised both hands in an interrogatory gesture of surmise.

“Ah,” exclaimed Sergeant Oliva, who had suddenly understood the question,
“Italiani.”