‘Don’t imagine I’m going to let you smirk at me,’ he snapped. ‘Anyone would think you were pleased she’s vanished! Go and keep watch on Cennet’s son! See if he’s sneaking out after dark, and if he does, find out where he’s going.’
The watchman walked away.
A few hours later, he was hiding in the dark, watching Cennet’s son. He had his eyes closed, but only to slow down his breathing. Once he had done so he went back to watching Cennet’s son, who was in one of the upstairs rooms. He had set his lamp close to the window, no doubt, and the shadows it cast on to the inner wall were hard to read. Every once in a while the flame flared up to send shadows racing across the ceiling. Now and again the flame would go out, just like that, and then there would be a long stretch when the wall went as blank as a mirror made of earth. But then Cennet’s son came back again, carrying a sheaf of paper. He sat down on the windowsill and began to write. On and on he wrote, as the night grew ever darker. Every so often, he raised his eyes to stare into the darkness. No doubt he could see the watchman hiding under the eaves, pressed against the house and sneaking a cigarette.
The watchman shifted his weight. His nerves were getting to him. He didn’t like people watching him when he was meant to be the one watching them. Whether he thought about it or not, he was tired. He leant his rifle against the wall and let himself slide slowly to the ground. By now the village had sunk into a silence so deep that there was hardly any village left. As if it had been too long in this world, and exhausted all its resources. As he pondered this thought, he felt himself falling into a bottomless pit. This must be the end, he decided. He was taking his leave from the world he knew, and never coming back. He had no hands. No feet, no nose. Were it not for that light breeze on his face, he’d have no skin either. Maybe he was flying. Maybe one day he’d fall back to earth, to find peace and quiet, and a place to sleep. How long would it be before he opened his eyes? What was this great marble mansion he saw standing before him? Why was his finger on the bell? Loud whispers crowded in on him. Faint, humming and dark, like a line of ants feeding on Cıngıl Nuri. Was there anyone here he didn’t know? First came the muhtar. On his right was Ramazan; on his left, Mustafa. But Ramazan wasn’t Ramazan. More likely he was Ferit the bandit. Mustafa, who wasn’t Mustafa, must be Soldier Hamdi with Fatma in his sights. A vineyard crumbled at the sight of her. A soldier – a tired, fearful deserter with a rifle in his hand. He was here, too. But where was the yard holding the children Hamdi had sired with his nine women?
‘What news?’
The watchman jumped. Where had the muhtar come from?
‘No news,’ he said.
‘And Cennet’s son?’
‘He’s still inside.’
The muhtar nodded. Then he walked straight to the front door of Cennet’s son’s house. The watchman was surprised at this sudden move. He found himself wondering whether or not it was the real muhtar. None of this made any sense – it must be a dream he was watching, a fit of delirium, an unearthly dance. Now he couldn’t even decide how to hold his rifle. First he tried slinging it from his shoulder; then he tried holding it in his hands. When he caught up with the muhtar, he felt as if he had dragged the night to the door with him. He could almost feel it sliding across all the rooftops of the village. He and the muhtar were wedged now between the door and the darkened village. But they had come too far now to think of turning around.
So it was with some reluctance that the muhtar knocked on the door. The knock ripped through the air like a clap of thunder. The whole village must be awake now. The watchman could feel their eyes pressing against the night. He thought about the village elders, shivering on their mattresses, and the children, jumping out of bed, and the animals kicking in their stables, ready to bolt. As an old lamp cast Cennet’s shadow across the walls, the watchman began to shake.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, open up!’
Slowly the door swung open. Cennet stood on the doorstep, her headscarf half undone, hair flying everywhere.
‘What is it?’
The muhtar said nothing. Instead he looked down at Cennet’s bare feet.
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl!’
Cennet’s eyes settled on the rifle, which was shining in the darkness. Losing patience, the muhtar pushed past the old woman into the house. The watchman followed. Together they ran up the unlit stairs. Cennet’s son was waiting for them at the door.
‘Where’s Güvercin?’ cried the muhtar.
The younger man looked at him as though he were mad.
‘Tell me, where have you taken her?’
‘I’ve not kidnapped anyone.’
The muhtar went hurtling into the room, going straight for the papers on the divan. He rifled through them, pausing now and again to hold a sheet up to the lamplight for a closer look.
‘What are these?’ he asked, after a pause.
‘Letters,’ said Cennet’s son.
The muhtar began pacing the room like a sleepwalker, papers in hand. It was as if he hadn’t heard. The watchman was harder to read. He wasn’t following the muhtar’s footsteps, but he wasn’t staying still either. With strange little half-steps, he was tracing a path around the house. It was almost as if he was circling an object only he could see. Cennet’s son seemed unmoved as he watched the strange proceedings. He leant against the doorframe, as calm as an actor waiting for his cue.
The muhtar had moved on to the next room now. He was peering into the humid darkness, checking behind the piled sacks of chickpeas, and underneath the staircase, going into the pantry to examine each and every shelf.
‘Take him to my office,’ he told the watchman.
Prodded by the butt of the watchman’s rifle, Cennet’s son made no protest. His mother watched trembling from the top of the stairs. Her headscarf was in her hand, and at that moment, with her dress and her fluttering hair, she looked more like an angel than like herself. Perhaps this was why she had lost the power of speech: she was moving her lips, but soundlessly.
‘Look at me,’ the muhtar ordered when they met her at the top of the stairs. ‘If you know anything about this, I’m asking you to tell us now, because otherwise this morning will start very late. And let me warn you: there’s no remedy on this earth for time wasted.’
‘What would I know?’ she asked.
‘You know something. Think about it. If you don’t know, you must have suspected something. You’re his mother.’
‘No,’ said Cennet, ‘I know nothing, and I suspect nothing either. Let go of my son!’ The muhtar continued down the stairs. Cennet set her lamp on the ground and sat on the top step, looking down at them.
‘Desperation has made your eyes blind,’ she said.
Still shaking, she walked out to the porch. She tried to make out the village square in the dark. She looked from house to house, street to street. She wanted to see every part of it and touch it – no, caress it. She could see nothing but the pitch-black night. Stretching out her arms she stepped forward.
‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘it is the village which is still here, while I have been left somewhere else.’
15
The barber was staring at the man in the chair.
‘Who can say how many times he’s dozed off now,’ he said in a soft whisper.
I offered no reply. Every time this man fell asleep, the silence in the shop deepened. Everything – from the scissors to the razors, from the boxes of powder to the bottles of cologne, from the brushes to the towels, and the walls, and even the water-heater – seemed fogged with sleep.
‘Maybe he’s dreaming,’ said the barber.
There followed a short silence. Who was to know which one of us started this – but something had grasped us, and the entire shop, in the palms of its hands. I was struggling for breath now. I gave my fellow prisoner a sidelong glance.
‘Maybe he’s dreaming,’ the barber said.
&n
bsp; I was not quite sure if he said this twice; it felt as if time had somehow divided us.
Nevertheless I said, ‘Yes. Maybe he’s dreaming. But will he remember any of it, when he wakes up?’
16
The watchman jumped up when the door opened, but Cennet’s son remained seated in his chair next to the wall, indifferent to the anger in the room.
‘Get up, boy!’ roared the watchman.
As soon as Cennet’s son got up, the muhtar sat down. He made himself comfortable. He imagined waves of silence, rolling across the room, swamping the young man across from him, and lapping against his heart. The letters were there on the desk, right next to his elbow. Each and every one was a piece of evidence. He still had no idea what they proved, but as soon as he read them, all would be clear.
Without thinking, he lit a cigarette. With the first drag, he went into a coughing fit. First, he cursed himself for breaking the silence he’d nurtured with such care. And for what? Or maybe it was just as well, he thought: maybe he’d needed to cough, to make it clear that this silence was his creation and his alone. But then he saw that both the watchman and Cennet’s son were watching him cough. He waited for one of them to say something. When no one did, he again lost his patience. But it was small and indistinct, the ill-will he felt then. As long as it didn’t engulf them all, it could be forgiven.
While the muhtar sat there at his desk like a statue of a god, the watchman underwent a transformation. Soon he had turned into a watchman who knew no mercy. He was standing behind Cennet’s son, breathing down his neck. With every passing moment his body grew harder. And who could say? He might have been standing in that spot for many thousands of years, in different uniforms, with different muhtars and under different names, but now he was the man of that moment, turned to stone.
Finally, the muhtar turned to Cennet’s son.
In a voice of authority, he said, ‘Tell us what you did with the girl?’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ cried Cennet’s son. ‘I have nothing to do with her!’
The muhtar gave the boy an insinuating smile – or rather, he thought of smiling as he struggled to hide the overwhelming urge to throw the young man against the wall . . . However, the muhtar’s face didn’t actually move, remaining as sullen and impassive as before. The moment he became aware of this, he beckoned Cennet’s son to his side. As he shunted the letters across his desk, he asked, ‘What are these?’
‘Letters.’
‘I know that. Who are they for?’
‘No one!’
The muhtar’s face went red. He put his trembling hands into his waistcoat pockets and pulled them out again. He looked to either side. What was he to do? Frowning, he shook his head, picked up one of the letters, and began to read it out. When he was done, he read out another, and then another . . . The margins were adorned with flowers whose stems unfurled into the corners, like snakes. At the end of some of the letters were sketches of birds holding envelopes in their beaks. With each new appearance, the birds changed their direction of flight, as if to mirror each other. But the muhtar hadn’t yet noticed that they were reversed. He was too intent on deciphering the scrawled words. They contained pages about love (‘such a burden it would take two to carry it’) and the rhythm of love, and the beloved’s breasts, and the lover’s long walks among the wildflowers, accepting his own death, so long as death came to him sooner than it came to her, for this was how it came to pass that lovers could die, from the burden of love itself. But nowhere in these missives of love, sadness and longing did he mention the girl by name.
The muhtar was beside himself. ‘Did you write these?’
‘I did,’ said Cennet’s son.
‘Like hell you did!’ bellowed the muhtar. ‘You haven’t got the brains to string together two words. Tell me, then. Who were you writing to?’
‘No one!’
The muhtar pushed aside the letters in disgust. Rising from his chair, he walked to the window. As if he wanted to escape, almost. As if he had nothing left to say. From here on in, he was going to keep his distance, seeing nothing, touching less. He peered between the curtains. ‘So he wrote these letters to no one,’ he thought, looking into the darkness. ‘No one . . .’ He tried to conjure up that murky shadow, that entity he’d never met or seen. But no matter how hard he stared into nothingness, no face emerged.
‘Look here,’ he said, turning around, ‘I know what it’s like to be young . . . I didn’t emerge bearded from the womb, you know? No matter how they steel their hearts, the young fall in love. Maybe you’ve fallen in love: I’m not saying you shouldn’t have – quite the contrary – I’m just saying you should go about it properly! Don’t smear your face in it like mud, or your name, either! How many times did you send your shitty-knickered mother to Reşit to ask for his daughter’s hand without anything to show for it? Did you even send her once? Let’s say you didn’t. Let’s say some ruffian took you into a corner and whispered some infidel words into your ear and you grabbed the girl and kidnapped her. This is youth we’re talking about, anything can happen! But what’s done is done, the dead are dead . . . Tell me where the girl is, and then we can talk to her father and bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Where’s the girl?’
But still Cennet’s son kept quiet. So quiet, in fact, that his silence leaked out of the walls of the muhtar’s office, swallowing every sound in its path as it rolled towards the village square. The muhtar leant back against the wall and looked at his outstretched hands; they no longer seemed to belong to him. There were living, breathing creatures, with fears and secrets they would never share with him.
What happened next was beyond comprehension. That said – by the time the muhtar began lowing like a calf, they had all lost their way. First the candle had flickered. Then it had died. It was still dark, and in that darkness were fists clenched with rage. And kicks, and shouts, and long strings of curses. The watchman’s cap flew off his head, only to be caught again and then lost again, and crushed. By now Cennet’s son was sobbing violently, and trying to crawl away. Then he, too, was flying through the air like the cap. He, too, was crushed. No one could say how long the fray lasted. But when, with trembling hands, the watchman relit the candle, Cennet’s son was on the floor, writhing in pain. The blows had painted his temples with blood. He struggled to open his eyes. He looked at the watchman, and then swallowed a few times, as if he hoped that this would be the end of it. Averting his eyes, the watchman righted the overturned chairs. In a room so small, this was no mean feat: wherever he looked he met that bloodied face, with those half-dead eyes staring up at him. And perhaps that was why he kept moving around the chairs, until he gave up and lined them against the wall. Then he searched for his cap. Once he had solved this small mystery, he began to calm down. It didn’t take him long to spot it; the cap was lying underneath Cennet’s son. But how to retrieve it – that was another question. In the end he just sat there, letting his mind wander, and scratching his head.
The muhtar had had enough. Resting his head in his hands, he wondered about the nobody that Cennet’s son had created out of nothing. He could just not believe that all those letters were written to someone with no name, and perhaps even no body. No one in the village had the brains for that, quite simply. Unless you included Soldier Hamdi, and his courtyard full of children, and Fatma of the Mirrors, and the pedlar who came and went like a ghost, and Güvercin the Dove . . . And now there were these letters, written to no one. Out of nothing. Another nothing! A nothing with no name, no face, no soul!
The muhtar leant back; gazing down at the pools of blood on the floor, he asked himself if there was a pool of nothingness inside each and every one of them. He instantly regretted not having thought of this long ago. Could he be right? If each and every one of them had a nobody inside them, then the whole village was full of nobodies who came and went like ordinary people, stopping at the coffeehouse, working the fields, gathering in the shade of the plane tree, crying a
t funerals and dancing at weddings. The muhtar knew nothing of these nobodies: he’d never met a single one. And this could be because the villagers had kept their nobodies well hidden. Perhaps each and every one of them had been nurturing their own nobodies in secret. Each, perhaps, in his own way. Some had fed their nobodies with dreams, night after night. Some had given them lullabies to drink. Some had nourished them with folk songs and legends. Some had put them to sleep with their voices, or caressed them with silence. Some fed their nobodies from their own flesh, and clothed them with their own skins. Cennet’s son had fed his nobody with letters; he had caressed his secret nobody with words. With the flowers he had drawn in the margins, he had created its scent. With the birds, he had created his nobody’s voice. Its eyebrows, its tresses, its lips, its eyes; they were all made of letters. He may even, invisibly, have fashioned its movements, so that this nameless nobody might wander from room to room without his mother ever noticing, climbing stairs made from letters, sitting at the dining table, cooking soup with Cennet, passing her the salt, and drinking water, but never, ever taking its eyes off Cennet, because if this nobody was not Cennet herself, then it was one of her dreams. Which meant, perhaps, that Cennet had come to inhabit another life, thinking it a dream, when really she was living the life of a nobody . . .
‘Poor old Cennet,’ he mumbled.
That made Cennet’s son sit up.
As the midnight inquisition resumed, shadows began to gather again outside the muhtar’s office. All evening, they had been coming and going, creeping out of their courtyards to watch. As if by common agreement, no one spoke. And yet there were whispers, rising from some unknown quarter to float through the dark streets; growing in volume, they rose above the chimneys, trees and walls to flow towards the village square. At first glance, each shadow seemed to stand alone, but then the truth emerged: they were as one, reflecting each other like broken mirrors, scattering their fears across every stone, patch of earth or darkness. They grew and grew like secrets. They had long since outgrown their owners, whom they had left behind at home to fret with their wives and children, but with every step they took, they took another step on their owners’ behalf. And now they were standing in silence outside the muhtar’s office, watching his door as yet more shadows poured out from behind the plane tree. Then these shadows, too, sat down, adding themselves to the silent crowd. If just one of them had shed a tear, the others would have followed. If just one had stood up, they would all have walked together . . . But they couldn’t make up their minds; they didn’t know what to do about the shouting and banging and cursing coming out of the muhtar’s office. Pressed down by silence, their anxieties grew. And they grew too, filling up the village square, turning it black as tar. And there they stood, waiting: the night within the night.