Bliss: A Novel (5 page)

The Stilnox had started to take effect. İrfan’s eyelids had begun to droop, and his mind was becoming cloudy. In the dimly lit bedroom, Aysel slept silently as usual, like a corpse, one leg released from its coverings.

The professor returned quietly to bed and laid his head to rest on the pillow. His last vision before falling asleep was of two young men and a boundless expanse of ocean. While he stood there on the shore, on the horizon was the slowly fading silhouette of the boat carrying his friend Hidayet to Alexandria to explore the poet Cavafy’s city.

“Had Hidayet reached his goal?” he wondered. Maybe he had stopped off somewhere along the way and settled down to a different way of life. Or perhaps the waves whipped up by the adverse winds of Zeus had engulfed his tiny boat.

“Good-bye, Hidayet,” İrfan murmured. And he dozed off into a troubled sleep, still unable to escape the fear of advancing toward death, of being aware of his destiny.

INNOCENT BRIDE, BEAUTIFUL BRIDE

Nine hundred miles east of Istanbul, and seventy miles beyond Meryem’s village, Cemal woke up trembling with excitement in his bunk at the outpost on the snow-covered slopes of the Gabar Mountains.

He had been dreaming again of the innocent bride, whose legend had been passed down in his village for generations. In his dream, the pure young woman had glanced at the forbidden part of his body. Then Cemal exposed his private parts to her, opening his body to the delicate touch of her hands as her eyes grew wide in wonder.

Although the identity of the innocent bride was unknown, the young men of the village never ceased to talk about her—endlessly repeating to each other the same titillating story.

Once, long ago, a young girl had grown up to the age of fifteen sheltered from all evil and raised like a precious flower in the seclusion of her home, ignorant of the world outside. Her parents did not let her play with other children, shielding her from knowledge of the shameful things that could happen between girls and boys.

The year she turned fifteen, the girl was married off to Hasan the shepherd, who prized his bride’s naïve innocence and was determined to preserve it. On their wedding night, he said, “I’m going to tell you a secret, my virtuous bride. I’m different from other men.”

The innocent girl looked expectantly at her husband.

“I have something they don’t have,” he said as he revealed himself to her.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “Whatever is that?”

“I’ll show you what it’s good for,” Hasan said and proceeded to demonstrate all the skills of his secret until dawn and prove to his wife that he was indeed different from any other man in the world. From that day on his wife wore an enigmatic smile. She did not share her man’s secret with anyone, but, in front of others, only lowered her gaze in a knowing, half-mocking way.

Several years later, Hasan had to report for his military service. Before leaving home for this two-year separation, he hugged his wife and told her they would carry on from where they had left off when he returned. “Just wait patiently for that time to come,” he said. After he was gone, the young woman’s face lost its smile and her eyes were full of yearning. “What’s the matter?” people would ask. “Nothing,” she would answer. “It’s just that I miss Hasan.”

One afternoon, as she was wandering aimlessly around, she was approached by her husband’s best friend, Mehmet.

“Why are you so glum?” he asked. “You’re not the only woman whose man has gone to serve in the army.”

“But he’s not like other men.” She sighed.

When Mehmet inquired what was so different about Hasan, she answered, “He has something in front of him that no other man possesses.”

Realizing his friend’s shrewdness, Mehmet grinned. “I have something similar,” he whispered.

Hasan’s wife did not believe him and thought he was telling her a lie. Mehmet took her to a deserted field, where he was able to prove the truth of his words. From that day on, he was able to prove it again and again on the many occasions he and the innocent bride met secretly at night.

Time passed quickly, and Hasan returned to the village. To his surprise, his wife greeted him with a tart look on her face instead of a smile. When he questioned her, she cried out, “You’re a liar! You told me that you were the only one who had that strange part in front of him.”

“My God,” Hasan thought to himself. “I’ve lost my innocent bride!”

He then asked her who else had this strange thing, and she told him about Mehmet.

Feeling desperate and not knowing what he could do, Hasan had recourse to another lie. “I used to have two of them, so I gave one to Mehmet.”

Upon hearing this, his wife burst into a storm of sobs and weeping. “What’s the matter?” Hasan inquired. “Why are you crying?” The innocent bride punched Hasan in the stomach as she wailed sadly, “Why did you give him the better one?”

Just at this point in the story, Cemal, like all the other young men in the village, would laugh uproariously, so Hasan’s answer to his wife’s question remained a mystery. Although the story, which was repeated almost every day, always ended there, Cemal let his thoughts run free, and he imagined different endings, especially at night in his dreams. He was never able to visualize the innocent bride’s face. All he could picture was a rather light complexion, but that in itself was often enough to make him resort to devilish pastimes.

In his bed at the outpost, Cemal let go of the warm vision of the innocent bride with difficulty. Feeling the sticky wetness on his sheets, he hesitated to move but lay there, wrapped in shame. The room was dimly illuminated by a single bulb, and the snores of the soldiers mixed with the crackling of the stove. The guard on duty, trying not to wake the sleeping soldiers, had opened the metal door to feed the stove by adding a few pieces of the low-grade coal he had managed to separate from the conglomerated mass.

A hollow feeling began to spread through Cemal’s stomach. He enjoyed dreaming of the innocent bride and carrying the pleasurable feelings she aroused in him to their logical end, but he hated the consequences. He had to get up and cleanse himself. After plunging himself so deep in sin, he could only purify himself by ritually washing every part of his body, from top to toe.

Cemal glanced at the plastic watch on his wrist. It was nearly 2:00
A.M
. Since his guard duty began in an hour, he would have no time for further rest after washing himself. If he allowed himself to snooze for five minutes, it would be more difficult to wake up again, but it was more appealing to snuggle back under the comfortable quilt and lose himself once more in thoughts of the innocent bride and her honey-colored skin. In any case, at three o’clock the sergeant would come to rouse him by pounding him on the shoulder and twisting his arm as if to break it. Perhaps he could find time to wash after his guard duty.

Just as he was beginning to relax, Cemal remembered his father. He could almost see the old man’s disapproving gaze, his eyes flashing beneath his turban, his hand angrily plucking a string of prayer beads.

Cemal shuddered, chilled by the same fear, familiar since boyhood, and roused himself from sleep. He had almost yielded to temptation and let the Devil get the better of him again. Not only had he dreamed of the innocent bride, but he had also dared to think of going back to sleep without performing the ritual ablution. He had come within inches of opening the gates of Hell. Fortunately, the thought of his father had served as a warning, and he remembered the old man’s words: “After being tricked by the Devil, one must perform the required ablutions and recite two prayers, asking for God’s mercy. If not … God forbid…”

The long and descriptive list of the torments of Hell that would follow “God forbid” turned Cemal’s blood cold. He did not have to experience those tortures to understand the deceptive and destructive ways of that creature called woman. Listening to his father’s words was enough to realize how Satan used those frail creatures to ruin the world.

Something stirred in the depths of Cemal’s heart, whispering that he could beat the odds—he could postpone the frigid shower until morning.

Yet there were no guarantees that he would be alive then. What if the outpost were attacked before dawn? Maybe a bullet from a Kalashnikov would smash his head to pieces while he was standing guard. Many of his friends had lost their lives in such raids. Just a week ago, Salih had been killed. No matter how strong the urge to remain in bed might be, Cemal’s fear of leaving this world unclean was more powerful.

He sat up. As his bunk was the top one, Cemal could make out the motionless forms of his sleeping comrades in the dim light. Some appeared almost lifeless. Others lay on their sides, or openmouthed on their backs—dreaming, mumbling, and filling the room with the sound of snores and grinding teeth.

The coarse khaki uniforms of the soldiers, worn for many days outside in freezing weather, now hung around the stove to dry, steaming and filling the room with a sour smell. It was impossible to dry wet laundry outside. It immediately stiffened in the icy cold. Bedsheets would become rigid, stretched like sailcloth over the lonely Gabar Mountains. So the soldiers used to wrap the wet sheets around their bodies to dry them. As for their woolen socks, faded from the slush that oozed through their leaking boots, they stuck them under their undershirts when they went to sleep. In the morning, the socks were always dry.

Cemal jumped down from the bunk bed, his bare feet feeling for the familiar hardness of his half boots. It was not necessary for him to look under the bed to find them. His feet found them by instinct. Those heavy leather boots, hard as tree bark from absorbing water and drying out over and over again, were an immutable part of a soldier’s life. The men had grown accustomed to the icy cold that crept in slowly through the thick leather, numbing their feet and legs. The intense pain of thawing out later by the stove was more difficult to bear. Their PKK opponents did not have combat boots but wore cheap, thin sneakers. The soldiers had noticed that all the guerrillas they killed in action wore the same light sports shoes, which offered mobility on the rough mountain terrain yet provided scant protection from the frost. As life rolled on against the odds, such details seemed more important than killing or being killed.

Although nothing could have easily awoken the twenty weary young men in the room, Cemal moved as quietly as possible. He could not help wondering which of them would live through the day and which might die. Tomorrow evening some of the beds might be empty, their present occupants lying bloody in the snow, cut down by a bullet, never to rise again, or blown to pieces by a mine.

While Cemal tied his bootlaces, the soldier on duty stared at him inquisitively from his place by the stove.

“I’ve got diarrhea,” Cemal said. The soldiers often suffered from this ailment, caused either by fatigue or the water they drank, and it was a better excuse to go out than to say he had to shower.

Cemal threw on his army jacket and left the room in his undershirt and long underwear, his boots rough on his naked feet. He heard the wind howling outside, sweeping through the valleys and around the snowy peaks, as if playing a piece of background music belonging to a merciless world. When Cemal had first arrived here, this sound had awed him, but now it seemed natural to his ear. In two years he had become a hardened commando, familiar with these harsh mountains.

The frigid air of the corridor cut Cemal’s skin like a razor blade. He hurried to the lavatory. He was still in the main building but the warmth of the stove had no effect here, and the corridor and bathroom were as cold as the air on the mountain outside. Shivering uncontrollably, he took off his underwear and upended the half-frozen water barrel over his head. He almost screamed, feeling as though his heart had suddenly become ice, but biting his lip, he managed to control himself. Steam rose from his body. With chattering teeth he washed himself scrupulously all over, especially the part that had given way to temptation. No part of his body should remain untouched by water. His teeth chattered, but his conscience was clear. He had not disobeyed the precepts of his terrible, honored, and respected father; he had eschewed sin and felt the satisfaction of doing what was right according to the laws of Islam. He had no doubt that his father was a hallowed saint: Following his instructions was a sure path to happiness in both this world and the next.

Cemal dried himself with the small towel he had brought with him and put on his clothes and boots. He returned to the sleeping quarters and was enveloped by a heavenly warmth as soon as he opened the door. The guard by the stove smiled, noticing Cemal’s wet hair, but said nothing. It happened to all of them.

Cemal laid the wet towel on his pillow and climbed into bed, but he could not go back to sleep. He remembered the three guerrillas they had killed the day before, Kurdish youths in frayed shirts, baggy trousers, and sneakers, insufficient clothing for these mountains. Big holes yawned open where their faces should have been—the work of G3 bullets. Could one have come from his own rifle? In a skirmish, each side usually fired indiscriminately for as long as possible, and one could never know from whose rifle the deadly bullet had come. If you actually took aim, you might know whom you brought down, but Cemal had not experienced that yet.

He had spent two years of his life in these vast, empty mountains that had become the measure of a soldier’s courage as well as his cowardice. At the end of a long climb, when they stood bathed in sweat on the peak of the mountain, they felt they were the lords of the terrain—the silvery rivers and emerald green valleys of summer that turned white with frost in winter. Heavily armed, and in the company of bosom comrades, they felt immune to death. Patrolling the slopes, they surveyed the land below like eagles, and their gaze detected even the slightest movement. They discovered the euphoria of realizing the might of being able to destroy at will. Then they felt like gods, and their heads touched the sky.

Yet the mountains were not always so generous. Sometimes while walking over open ground, the soldiers would come under fire from a distant hill, and as the bullets whistled overhead, fear clenched their hearts—a fear like no other. Inches away from a bullet between the eyes or in the brain, they hung in the balance between life and death. A solitary PKK sharpshooter could pin down a whole unit and inflict serious damage. Armed with sniper’s rifles, the guerrillas targeted officers. Sometimes a group of ten or fifteen would attack larger units with bazookas, hand grenades, and Kalashnikov rifles. On the peaks, the commandos were masters, below the summits, the prey.