And with that, there was no question that this boy would continue to live, unborn, until the novel’s last page.
20
When he walked into the barber’s shop many weeks later, Cennet’s son was shaking violently. Struggling to catch his breath, he asked in a wavering voice if Cıngıl Nuri could cut his hair.
‘You know Nuri’s given up this work,’ said the barber.
But the boy refused to believe him. Waving his finger, he searched the shop for Nuri, sometimes laughing madly, and sometimes softly, only to burst into tears. The big-eared apprentice jumped up and went to hide behind the counter. Seeing that he had scared the child, Cennet’s son stopped his searching and pointing, and plumped himself down in the barber’s chair.
As he did so, he said, ‘I saw Nuri only yesterday.’
The barber removed his white apron from the drawer. As he tied it on, he said, ‘So, where did you see him?’
‘Here, right where you’re standing. He was shaving Rıza, first thing in the morning.’
‘That was me,’ said the barber.
‘That wasn’t you,’ insisted Cennet’s son. ‘It wasn’t you at all . . . It was Nuri. I talked with him.’
The barber had no idea how to respond to this.
His apprentice was confused too, in fact, and as he danced around the chair, he kept his eyes on the barber, to see what he would say. The barber, however, chose to remain silent. Nothing he could say would make the slightest difference. And that may be why he was able to finish the shave so quickly.
Without a word, Cennet’s son got up and headed for the door. Then he stopped. He shook his head, which looked like a sad prickly pear. ‘That means you must be Nuri,’ he said.
The barber had to laugh.
And then Cennet’s son rushed out of the shop, and into the village square. He opened his arms wide, as if trying to embrace the whole village, and bellowed, ‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
Passers-by slowed down to look at him. Doors flew open and slammed shut. The whitebeards leaning against the wall looked up and squinted, and then sank back again, to confer in whispers. As they always did, sitting in secret judgement of all that passed before them. But now they were at a loss, because so many things were happening that had never happened before. Each day, the list of things to discuss grew longer. Right now, for instance, a crowd of villagers had gathered in the shade of the plane tree. Slowly, very slowly, they were walking towards Cennet’s son. Faces rose above every courtyard wall, children jumped out from behind every corner, every threshing floor and chimney. From every direction, they converged on the village square, forming a great and crooked circle, until suddenly, they stopped . . .
Cennet’s son was going around the circle, asking each villager in turn, ‘Why does the snooow, the snooow faaallll?’
No one answered. Some looked away. Others gazed at him in sorrow. Then somehow, the news reached Cennet, and she came running into the village square, her hair flying behind her. At first, it seemed as if she was going to put things right. In fact, all the signs were good; confronted with his dishevelled and bewildered mother, Cennet’s son fell silent. But not for long. For now he broke through the circle to run at the plane tree. The circle stretched for a moment, as if tied to him by invisible thread, but in no time the crowd had begun running, with Cennet in tow.
Rıza the shopkeeper came out to watch, incurious and impassive. Cennet’s son was now hugging the plane tree, screaming ‘Why does the snow fall, the snow?’ and kicking out at anyone who tried to approach him. Then he started spitting at them, and bursting into laughter, and babbling before finding someone new to spit at. Cennet was at her wits’ end; stretching out her dry hands, she implored him to stop. Now and again, she’d turn around, seeking someone, anyone, who could help. And then, the muhtar strode in from wherever he’d been hiding. Eyes on fire, he walked straight over to the plane tree.
‘You! Tell me, why does the snow fall?’ shouted Cennet’s son. The muhtar was silent. Then – much to everyone’s surprise – he wheeled around and went straight back to his office, to collapse on to his desk. This was the end, he thought, as his conscience stung.
‘Don’t be too hard on the boy,’ he said to the watchman, who had followed him in. ‘He’s lost his mind. He has no idea what he’s saying . . .’
The watchman just shook his head. Dropping into a chair by the wall, he kept his sad eyes downcast.
‘But to tell you the truth,’ the muhtar mumbled, ‘at this precise moment I wouldn’t mind being in his shoes.’
Though even he had no idea where these words had come from. Or rather, he was sure he had not thought them: the words had just come out. After all these years of weighing every wise word, and watching many thousands of abandoned hopes settle into the creases of his lined face, he felt like an insect, crushed under its chosen burden, and flailing helplessly. And there he remained, deskbound and catatonic, until, without warning, a new idea came to him. Mulling it over, he walked to the window to look out on to the village square.
Cennet’s son was still standing next to the plane tree, waving his arms about and talking to his mother. Unless he was shouting, and spraying spit, and asking, once again, why the snow fell. All the others had left the square by now, just about, to go back to their shops and household chores. Only Rıza remained. He stood in silence outside his shop, as if charged with the task of looking out for Cennet’s son.
Watching from his window, and craning his neck, the muhtar felt himself go stiff again. Again, he felt a weight pressing down on him, a weight he could not move. He was stuck where he was, as helpless as a rusty nail that had been hammered into this window many centuries ago. His body hissed and hummed, but he could not move it.
Now and again, he murmured, ‘So it’s like that.’
The watchman stood by, pleading with his eyes. And with time, they worked their magic; the private muhtar sank away, to surrender to the public muhtar. Until at last, the two muhtars returned together to the desk.
‘Yes,’ he said again, ‘it’s like that. I’ve rumbled the rascal, at last!’
The watchman waited patiently for the muhtar to explain further. This he did not do. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the bag containing his official seal, his mind on Cennet’s son. Now even he had become an absence, it seemed. Albeit an absence of an entirely different sort. He had not vanished into thin air, like Soldier Hamdi, or come and gone like the pedlar, or slipped into the mountains like Fatma of the Mirrors, or flown off like Güvercin the Dove . . . Nor had he been propelled by inner turmoil to walk the earth like Cıngıl Nuri. He had, quite simply, become invisible to the naked eye. In this realm, at least. You could still see him every day, rushing here, there and everywhere. You could hear his voice and smell his scent, but without ever quite reaching him. This was, in effect, the cleverest ploy of all: to vanish into one’s own mind. Maybe this was why Cennet’s son had gone mad: so as to bury himself in his own thoughts. To succeed in going mad, he’d need more brains than the rest of them put together.
The muhtar pointed to the door. ‘Go and fetch Cennet.’
His voice trailed off into the dusk. With some reluctance, the watchman went off to fetch Cennet, but she wasn’t in the mood to hear what he had to say. She was still trying to persuade her son to let go of the plane tree and come home. Sometimes she went down on her knees to beg, sometimes she just ran back and forth, dodging her son’s kicks, but she would not leave. After the watchman had followed her around the plane tree a few times, he repeated the muhtar’s request. Cennet stopped; panting, she gave him a long look. Then she started spitting at him. The watchman was shocked. He made to reassure her, just to clear the air, but Cennet wasn’t having it; raving, she shook her fists at him. He could not understand a word she was saying. She was growling like a dog. The watchman backed away, but this only gave her courage. Wiping the spit off his face, the watchman scrambled back towards the centre of the village square.
 
; Before long, they were in front of the muhtar’s office. The watchman, speechless and wide-eyed, seemed caught up in Cennet’s shadow. The distance between them had not changed. But the time had come to bring this charmless dance to a close. Or so the watchman must have thought, as he scurried inside.
Still keeping her distance, Cennet paused, before letting fly a great wad of spit.
‘Now they’ve both gone mad,’ said the watchman.
Striking a match, he tried to light the candle next to the muhtar. Because the muhtar was sitting at his desk in utter darkness. At first glance, he seemed to be asleep, or even dead. When the candle was lit, his eyes were still closed. Then came a tapping at the window. The first thing the muhtar noticed when he opened his eyes were the pale portraits of Atatürk and Marshal Fevzi Çakmak. Then he read the bismillah on the back of the door, before turning his head to investigate the tapping. The watchman considered grabbing his rifle and running to the window, but somehow he found himself lying on the floor instead. Behind the glass, he could see a blurred face, fast approaching.
‘That’s Cennet’s son,’ whispered the watchman.
The face at the window went abruptly out of focus.
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
The watchman shuddered.
‘Let him be,’ said the muhtar from where he sat. ‘Let him shout all he wants.’
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
The watchman slumped down into a chair, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the face, not even for a moment. The same could be said of the muhtar, too: try as he might, he could not manage to ignore that nose pressed against the glass, or those grinding teeth. Many hours must have passed before they had stared this apparition into nothingness. Of course, it may well be that the face left of its own accord. Whatever the truth of the matter, the two men continued to stare at the empty window for some time afterwards.
When at last they stood up, they could hear Cennet’s son in the distance. ‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
For a time, the watchman stood watching the muhtar making his way home, and then he crossed over to the other side of the village square. Slowing down as he passed beneath the rustling plane tree, he settled his gaze on Rıza’s shop. Despite the late hour, there was light flickering inside. Sucking in his breath, he approached this window on tiptoes. Rıza was sitting behind the counter with two friends. On the tray in front of them was a wedge of cheese, a plate of pickles, three glasses, and a large bottle of rakı. The bottle was still filled to the neck, but it was clear that they were already deep in conversation: their hands were flying about, and when they weren’t talking, they were puffing on their cigarettes. Every time they exhaled, their moustaches vanished in clouds of smoke. Then suddenly Rıza froze, as did the cloud of smoke encircling him.
‘What’s wrong?’ the others asked.
‘I thought I saw a face at the window,’ said Rıza. ‘It was looking straight at us.’
All three turned to the window to look.
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
‘The sound came from far off,’ said one. ‘It can’t be Cennet’s son.’
‘Of course it’s not him,’ growled Rıza. ‘You think he’d come here after kidnapping my niece?’
‘Maybe you were just imagining things . . . If you look at a window too long, eventually you’ll see a face. I mean, we all have one, don’t we? A face we’ve lost, but are always seeking, even though we’ll never see it again?’
‘Never mind,’ said the third. ‘Where were we?’
‘The two brothers.’
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
Rıza started cutting the cheese into thin slices. ‘So you were saying?’
‘As I was saying, Gülbahar got two brothers to shoot each other . . . That’s the way of whores; do they ever think of honour? When one brother left, the other arrived. They both knew what was going on, actually. They had to know. How can you hide anything in a village? Even if you do manage to hide something, how long can you keep it hidden? But as I was saying . . . The brothers soon worked out that they were both pissing on the same rock, and when they did, it became a competition. Who could bring her the finest delicacies, the best stockings, the most fabric? It heated up, this contest . . . When she saw all these presents, Gülbahar was well pleased, naturally, but she was left not knowing what to wear when she went out and about. Whenever she met up with the brothers, she’d wear all the gifts at once, so as not to upset either one.’
Rıza was eyeing a small slice of cheese. He was not listening to the story. He was thinking of Güvercin, desperately trying to conjure up her face, but to no avail. It was as though she had never existed, never once passed through this village. He could only remember her name: Güvercin. No hands or feet. No tongue, no lips. No shadow. Just a name. Güvercin . . .
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
‘And then?’
‘Then one night, Gülbahar invited both the brothers to her home. They say she made a mistake, but I reckon it was the straightforward cunning of a whore! You know, I think the minx got bored of them both; every day the same-colour eyes, the same crooked nose, the same curly hair, the same smile . . . And she said: I’ll bring them both together and let them see what’s what! In this game Gülbahar was playing, it wasn’t clear who was the fire and who the tongs. But one thing’s for sure, she didn’t expect any blood, and certainly didn’t think she’d be picking both of them off the floor at the same moment.’
Rıza was still looking at the small slice of cheese. He was concentrating so hard that he seemed to be spearing it with a mental fork. He read his whole life in that slice of cheese – his shop’s fortunes, his son Ramazan’s arrival, Güvercin’s lost face – there was so much there that he was sure all he knew and loved would be destroyed, should one of the others eat it. He could take the precaution of putting it on a plate, and moving it out of reach, of course, or he could remove the danger by popping it into his mouth. Except that he wasn’t after an easy fix. The cheese needed to stay where it was, untouched. Alas, it was not to be. Instead he watched aghast as it was snatched up and devoured. And Rıza let it happen. Oh where was it now, his slice of cheese? How he longed to tell them to stop talking about Gülbahar! But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
‘You drifted off?’ asked the cheese-eater.
At the same moment, the watchman opened his eyes to find himself leaning against a courtyard wall at the other end of the village. He must have drifted off: his mind was still fogged. He could hear someone coughing on the other side of the wall, and someone else snoring. A baby was crying, the horses and cows wheezing. He thought he must be the only one still roaming the streets of the village. The others had long since blown out their candles and retired to bed. Only the old and the bedridden were still awake, and even they would be wrapping themselves up tight by now, to gaze mournfully at the ceiling, their ears against the wall, as the village sank into a silence darker than night itself.
The watchman had come to enjoy these moments, when every house, stable and courtyard in the village seemed his and his alone. The pretence of owning everything sent his thoughts to strange places. Sometimes, for instance, he imagined himself shooting people in their beds. Rıza came first, of course, and then Cennet’s son, and Vehbi, whose courtyard stood next to his, followed by many others . . . However many he killed, no one would stand in his way. For everything in his dark and silent kingdom, from the newborn in their cradles to the last lost stalk of straw, was his and his alone. As he let his thoughts wander, he smoked his way through one pack of cigarettes, and then another, his rifle under his arm, his eyes never straying from Rıza’s door. He could, he thought, be Azrael, the Archangel of Death. Until he had in fact become Azrael, to tower over the entire village. Knowing that he would continue to do so until morning, come what may, he’d point his rifle at a certain room on the ground floor of a certain house where Rıza’s sleep was soon to be disturb
ed by a bullet flying into his hairy chest. As he marched towards his target, the rage inside him grew, until it felt as if a giant rope was pulling him forward. The click of an unpressed trigger shot through his hands as the roar of an unexploded rifle filled his ears, while in front of him was an unshot Rıza, gaping like a baby bird.
‘Why does the snooow faaallll?’
Slowly the watchman got back on his feet. This madman, he thought, was not going to let up all night. He came to a stop at Rıza’s courtyard gate. Peering through the windows and cracks in the door, he tried to catch a glimpse of those sleeping inside. Not a sound in the village: not even the grass crunched. He pushed the gate open and tiptoed inside. There the darkness seemed even darker. But never mind: he knew where the stable door was, and now he crept towards it on the tips of his toes.
‘Where have you been?’ Hacer whispered.
Prepared though he was for any eventuality, the watchman jumped. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in the shop, drinking.’
They climbed into the hay.
‘I suppose you don’t know what’s been happening in the village, then,’ said the watchman sternly.
‘How could I not know?’ asked Hacer. ‘But listen. It’s been ages since you’ve come to see me.’
‘Is Ramazan asleep?’
‘He is.’
‘He’s got a lot bigger, hasn’t he?’
‘A lot bigger. He’s become a fine young man.’
The watchman took his rifle off his shoulder and placed it within easy reach. Hacer was lying in the hay, breathlessly awaiting him, but even after all these years, she still kept throwing glances in all directions, for fear of being caught. The watchman crouched down beside her. Taking her hands in his, his mind went blank. Meek as a kitten, he stretched himself out, as the village sank deeper into its silence, with its houses and courtyards, and the clatter and clutter of daylight receded into the blank beyond. Until there was no one left on this earth but the watchman, and Hacer of course, as they fell unseen into the dark and silent abyss. Wasting no time, Hacer pulled up her skirts to receive the watchman, who had already pulled down his trousers and was shuffling towards her on his knees, safe in the knowledge that he was no longer the watchman, but the great and towering Azrael, flashing his executioner’s eyes. He began by caressing her legs. Then suddenly he tightened his grip, as if to yank them off. As she struggled to free herself, her great thighs strayed. He sank his teeth into her nipples and was wild with joy when she screamed in pain. Now fury overtook him. He attacked the writhing Hacer like a rabid dog. He even growled as he bit into her lips, which soon began to swell, like honeycombs. They had just reached the melting point when suddenly they stopped. The watchman hurled himself across the hay, as if in response to the rattle of a gun. And there, for a time, he stayed, shivering in the darkness.