Bliss: A Novel

  She saw the sun rise in a crimson cloud behind a nearby hill. From their nests in the cypress trees, the sparrows chirped nonstop. Her happiness overflowed. On the chair in front of the bed, she saw a white dress. It must be a surprise gift from the professor. After admiring herself in the mirror in her new white dress, she went downstairs.

  There was no one to be seen. It was too early for anyone to be awake. She went out into the garden and walked to the jetty. She watched the boat, which had become like home to her, sway gently in the morning breeze. She looked around at the orange trees as if witnessing a miracle. How could this fragrance be so pervasive? It was even more enticing than the smell of jasmine.

  As Meryem walked around the garden, she discovered a chicken coop. Like a child, she joyfully collected the warm eggs. Back in the kitchen, she made tea, boiled the eggs, and set the table for breakfast in the garden.

  The first to wake up was the ambassador. Still groggy from sleep, he did not recognize Meryem at first. In her white dress, so fresh and lively, she seemed a completely different girl. Then he noticed the breakfast table. “You did all that!” he said in surprise.

  “Yes!” said Meryem proudly, as she poured the tea.

  As they were eating, the ambassador asked Meryem, “Were you seasick?”

  “Possibly,” she replied.

  “Had you ever sailed on a boat before?”

  “No. I was in a rowboat on Lake Van once, but that was different.”

  “I get seasick, too,” said the ambassador. “That’s why I don’t go sailing.”

  “It’s so beautiful here,” said Meryem, looking around. “It’s like heaven.”

  Cemal came down a little later. Glancing surreptitiously at the girl, he took his seat at the table. In a little while, the professor also arrived. He was glad to see Meryem, but refrained from giving her a hug.

  Looking down at her dress, the girl said, “Thank you.”

  “It suits you,” replied İrfan. The dress of fine cotton he had bought in the local market fluttered in the morning breeze like a wedding gown.

  Two days passed happily by. No one disturbed anyone else. The ambassador read books in his room, the professor went to the village and sat in the teahouse by the sea, Meryem hoed and watered the sweet basil, mint, tomatoes, and parsley the ambassador had planted, and Cemal either fished from the jetty or went to the village.

  The ambassador did not allow fish to be fried in the house since the odor would linger for as long as three days. Cemal could not bring home the fish he caught. Instead, he removed the hooks from their mouths and threw them back into the sea. However, this was not enough to prevent him from fishing; to count how many he had caught was satisfaction enough.

  During the long hours on the pier, he brooded about his future. He had no money, no job, and no home. He could not live in this house forever. He was unable to decide if he should go back to his village or go to Istanbul to try to find work there, perhaps as a security guard. Selahattin had told Cemal that if the girl were not with him, it would be easy for him to find a job. Ex-commandos were hired as guards by all the big banks and companies, and they got paid well. Would it be such a bad idea to leave the girl here and go to Istanbul? But would these men accept her as their responsibility?

  One day when he was immersed in his thoughts, Cemal realized that he no longer thought about Emine or yearned to be with her, a discovery that did not disturb him much. He had left his village far behind, together with everyone and everything that belonged to his past, except for Meryem.

  * * *

  In the evening, they all ate together. Then İrfan and the ambassador would drink whisky and talk for hours, using words neither Meryem nor Cemal understood.

  Sometimes, Meryem or the professor prepared the food, but mostly it was the ambassador who cooked. They often had spaghetti. The ambassador would pour olive oil and sprinkle sweet basil over the noodles.

  One evening, when the ambassador had a pot full of water on the stove, the gas ran out. “Oof!” said the old man. “We can’t buy a canister of gas at this time of day. The shops in the village are closed. We’d have to find someone to open up for us.”

  Meryem immediately came up with a solution: “There’s bottled gas on the boat.”

  The ambassador looked at the girl in amazement.

  “I’ll go and get it,” said Cemal.

  “There’s no need to bring it here,” Meryem responded. “We can take the pot to the boat, cook the noodles, and bring them here.”

  Cemal was irritated. “It’s easier to bring the gas,” he said. “We might need it later for making tea or something.”

  The girl and the boy faced each other angrily. Then they both turned to the ambassador, as if waiting for him to decide who was right. The atmosphere was tense. Any answer he gave would upset either Meryem or Cemal.

  The ambassador hesitated briefly, then said, “Let’s eat out tonight. Forget about the gas. There’s a family from the southeast living nearby who make special pancakes and serve them in their garden.”

  Everyone relaxed, and they set out along the sandy road to the village.

  It was not far to a place where naked bulbs could be seen hanging underneath an awning. The family from the southeast had repaired the house, placed a few simple wooden tables and chairs in the garden, and begun to make and sell the traditional pancakes of their hometown. Foreign tourists, in particular, loved the food prepared by the mother of the family, her head swathed in a clean white muslin scarf. She made the dough, rolled it thin, then baked it on an iron sheet; the two sons served the customers, and the father with his bushy moustache sat at the cash register. Recently, many such places had sprung up in towns along the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts.

  Meryem became nostalgic when she smelled the fresh odor of pancakes baking on the hot metal tray. She recalled how, as a child, she used to watch the bread baking in the backyard and later enjoy the triangular flaky pastries spread with butter. As soon as she arrived there, she had sensed that this was a place that would arouse her feelings.

  As they ate their food, they could hear the sound of the waves. Otherwise, there was only silence since the father had told his sons to turn off the radio as soon as he saw the ambassador. He did not want to make the old man angry.

  Meryem listened to the unending conversation between İrfan and the ambassador.

  “What about wars and massacres?” asked İrfan. “Do you think they’re games, too?”

  “Yes. They’re all games.”

  “Mass murders, world wars, atom bombs?”

  “Games … childish games—if you look at it from the point of view of the cosmos. Think about the recent Kardak crisis between Turkey and Greece. If you consider the matter from the military point of view of both countries, war might seem reasonable. But try to consider it from the point of view of the goats on Kardak island: a lot of men roaring in on assault boats, dirtying the sea with diesel fuel, and destroying the peace of centuries. They erect a pole with a blue cloth on the rocks and leave. Then some other men come on boats just as noisy and replace the blue cloth with a red one. What is it, if it isn’t a game? Human beings belong to the category of mammals, yet they try to turn themselves into something else. But no animal can survive outside its biological rules. A donkey has to live like a donkey, a snake like a snake, and a human being like a human being. However, the latter falls into error through his own strength by trying to become something else, forcing himself to change his nature. This is the real reason for unhappiness and war. In short, my friend, a human has to live like a human and a donkey like a donkey.”

  The ambassador paused and turned to Meryem and Cemal. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?” he asked.

  “A donkey has to live like a donkey,” Cemal repeated.

  “Meryem understands everything,” İrfan said. “She understands whatever you say.”

  “She understands everything,” Cemal muttered. “Who do they think they’re f
ooling?”

  Then the ambassador said, “Let’s play a game. If you’re all so smart, then solve this riddle by tomorrow.”

  The professor looked at the ambassador as if he wanted to say that it was not the right time or place for a game. “Don’t look at me like that,” said the ambassador. “You, too, are bound to find me the answer.”

  Meryem and Cemal listened attentively as the old man spoke.

  “A great sultan summons his two sons to his deathbed. He tells them that he will die soon and does not want his realm to be divided. ‘However,’ he continues, ‘you shall not fight between yourselves about who is to be the new ruler. Tomorrow, both of you will go to the hunting lodge an hour’s distance from here, and you will return the following day. Whoever’s horse enters the city last will become sultan.’ At once, each of the two princes begin to consider the problem. A race to come first would have been easy, but in what way would it be possible to enter the city last? They go to the hunting lodge and eventually find a solution. Now, you have until tomorrow morning for the most intelligent of you to come up with the answer.”

  Everyone was silent, trying to puzzle it out.

  As she was finishing her pancakes and buttermilk, Meryem heard a donkey bray. The sound came from behind the house. Meryem stood up and walked in the direction of the sound. Behind the tumbledown house was a garden planted with vegetables. Two dogs lay there lazing in the sun, and a donkey stood tied to a tree, braying from some unknown discomfort. Meryem went over to it, stroked its head, and whispered something in its ear. She could feel the hardness of the skin under its harsh coat. This backyard smelled like the poplar garden at home. A strange feeling welled up inside her as she heard someone coming. It was the dark-eyed boy with a lock of hair falling over his forehead, the boy who had served them.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Talking to the donkey,” Meryem replied.

  The boy laughed. “It’s our donkey, but I’ve never heard it speak,” he said.

  “It talks only when it wants to,” responded Meryem.

  The boy introduced himself as Mehmet Ali. “Where are you from?” he asked.

  Meryem told him about her hometown, and Mehmet Ali was surprised that she was from the east. “I would never have thought so,” he said. “You have a slight accent, but since you’re with the ambassador, I thought you were his relative.”

  Mehmet Ali was very talkative, and Meryem soon learned all about his life and family. They had left their hometown because of the war but had not gone to a big city like millions of others fleeing the fighting. Instead, they had come to this little coastal village where a relative of theirs had given them the idea of selling pancakes. They were just making ends meet but believed they would earn more in the future as the number of tourists coming to the village increased.

  Meryem stroked the donkey’s face as she listened to Mehmet Ali. A little later, they heard the professor calling her name. They felt awkward when they returned to the front garden, as if they were mutually guilty of committing some sin. Everyone was looking at them.

  Later, as they walked home, the ambassador asked Meryem where she had been.

  “I was talking to a donkey,” she said.

  “What did it tell you?”

  “It told me that you were right.”

  The ambassador and İrfan burst into laughter. This girl was certainly as odd as the professor had said.

  The next morning, the ambassador asked if they had the answer for him. İrfan spoke first. “In a horse race, one of them could enter the city first,” he said, “but it would be out of the question to enter last. Since their father was aware of this, he actually wanted the princes to become reconciled and agree between themselves as to who would ascend the throne.”

  “You have failed, mon cher!” The ambassador laughed.

  İrfan shrugged; he had already forgotten the question. Besides, he had made up his answer on the spur of the moment.

  “Come, commander, what’s your answer?” asked the ambassador, turning to Cemal.

  “Please don’t let him know it, please, dear God!” Meryem prayed.

  “Neither of the brothers move,” said Cemal. “They wait in the hunting lodge for days. Whoever gives in, loses, and the one with the strongest willpower waits till the end and becomes the new sultan.”

  “No, commander.” The ambassador laughed. “That’s not the right answer either. What if neither of them moves, and they wait there for years? Now, pretty girl you tell me.”

  “They exchange horses!” Meryem blurted out.

  The ambassador began to applaud, and the professor laughed.

  Cemal jumped out of his chair. “What do you mean by ‘exchange horses’?” he shouted.

  Meryem turned to him and explained slowly, as though talking to a child, “They get on each other’s horses and ride them like mad in order to enter the city first. The son whose horse comes in last becomes the sultan.”

  “But the last, not the first, becomes the sultan!” Cemal objected.

  “Not the first son,” said İrfan, “but the son whose horse enters the city last. The answer is in the question!”

  Cemal left the table.

  “Thank you, Bibi,” Meryem said to herself. If Bibi had not told her this story when she was a child, Meryem would never have come up with the right answer, but she had no intention of sharing her secret with the others.

  Both the ambassador and the professor had admired Meryem’s wit while Cemal had left the room abruptly, his face purple with rage.

  Was she going to lessen her enjoyment by telling them the truth?

  “How did you find the answer?” İrfan asked.

  “I thought about it all night,” Meryem replied, “and the answer suddenly popped into my head!”

  * * *

  Later that day, Mehmet Ali brought some pita bread to the stone house. He stayed in the vicinity that afternoon, twisting his forelock and secretly watching the house.

  The following day, he came again toward midday and said that his mother had asked for Meryem. A large group of tourists had come, and the old woman needed help. Since Meryem had told her that she knew how to make pancakes, his mother wondered if she could give them a hand. Meryem was sure that this was Mehmet Ali’s idea but made no comment.

  She went to the pancake restaurant that day, the next day, and the following one, too. So it happened that she began to spend most of her day there. Mehmet Ali’s mother hugged Meryem, kissed her cheeks, and said, “My little partridge. Don’t you have a mother or a father?”

  “No,” Meryem answered.

  “My poor girl,” the woman said, and hugged her again.

  Although the professor and the ambassador were good to her, Meryem felt nervous and uncomfortable near them. When she was with the family from the east, she felt at home, as if she were in her own part of the world. She felt the family were sympathetic toward her and would not cause her harm.

  One day she asked the old woman, “Shall I bake some flaky butter pasties?”

  “Of course, my dear,” said the woman, “but let me bring you something else to wear so that your nice dress doesn’t get dirty.”

  Together they entered the small house. The woman opened a wooden trunk and took out a blouse and a beautiful pair of baggy pants decorated with purple flowers.

  Meryem was amazed at how comfortable she felt in these clothes. As soon as the trunk was opened, she had caught a whiff of her hometown, bringing her to the verge of tears.

  How strange it was. The clothes she had struggled so hard to get rid of now seemed to embrace her like old friends. She would never give up wearing her new clothes, which would always give her a sense of freedom, but it would be pleasant to wear her old ones from time to time.

  Putting on an apron, she covered her hair with a muslin cloth and sat down in front of the kneading trough. Soon, her arms were covered in flour up to her elbows. She sat down beside the hot metal tray, baking the thin shee
ts of pastry and spreading them with butter before folding them into shape. From that day on, many customers asked for her special pastries.

  In the afternoon, Meryem washed her arms and face at the faucet in the backyard before she changed her clothes and went home. The next day, when she returned, she immediately put on the baggy pants.

  Wearing those pants was not the only change in Meryem. As soon as she stepped into the family’s garden, she felt secure. She spoke without embarrassment, and even her accent smacked of the east again.

  Meryem talked nonstop with Mehmet Ali, laughing, telling stories, and teasing him. She behaved flirtatiously toward him and felt proud when the boy looked at her admiringly.

  Everything flowed along like milk and honey, and Meryem smiled knowingly to herself when the old woman said, “You’ve brought us such good fortune. Since you came here, the customers have been flocking in.”

  When she caught Mehmet Ali secretly looking at her breasts, she smiled to herself again. He followed at her heels as though mesmerized and never left her side. Meryem enjoyed feeling his excitement, which she had inspired.

  One day, when she was alone mixing the dough inside the house, Mehmet Ali tiptoed up behind her. He gathered up all his courage, kissed her on the neck, and rushed out of the house. Meryem smiled to herself, and strangely, was not in the least upset.

  A WILD NIGHT

  Life was going smoothly, and everything was harmonious and peaceful in the house that smelled of orange blossom. It seemed as though they could go on living that way forever. Even Cemal, in spite of huffing and puffing and making constant complaints, had to put up with living among people he was sure were traitors, for he had nowhere else to go.

  The retired ambassador enjoyed having a like-minded friend. At first, he had said that no one was allowed to bring up political matters, but this ban only applied to others. He took pleasure in stating his ideas, and if anyone interrupted, he got angry, and said, “This is what I think. How can you have an opinion on this? For half a century, I’ve been racking my brains over these subjects.”