Meryem said they would leave and never come back just as soon as Cemal woke up.
Then she sat in the garden with the ambassador, waiting for Cemal to come down. Hoping he would soon appear, the old man kept his eyes fixed on the house.
They waited until noon, but Cemal did not come. The ambassador kept asking, “Why doesn’t he get up?” until at last, quite fed up, Meryem rose and went to see what Cemal was doing. She knocked gently on his door, but there was no answer, then a little louder but still got no reply. Finally, she began to pound on the door, simultaneously calling out his name at the top of her voice. No one could sleep through that noise, but not a sound could be heard from Cemal’s room.
The ambassador joined her outside the room. He looked terribly worried. Perhaps he was in a panic, afraid of facing a worse situation, a suicide or a death in his house. In great fear, he and Meryem opened the door and entered the room.
Cemal was lying on the bed in his shirt and shorts. The ambassador whispered, “Cemal. Mr. Cemal.” Then he repeated in a louder voice, “Mr. Cemal!”
Cemal neither moved nor uttered a sound. The ambassador timidly shook his shoulder. Nothing happened. Then he put his ear to the boy’s chest. “He’s breathing,” he said with relief.
That day they were unable to wake Cemal. When night descended, the boy was still in a deep sleep, as though he were in another world.
The ambassador could not understand the situation. “I’ve only experienced such a thing once before,” he said. “Actually, I’ve always had sleeping problems. But once, when my mother died, I came home and slept for twenty-four hours without dreaming or knowing that I was still alive. Maybe it’s a type of death. Perhaps Cemal is suffering from something similar.”
Meryem went upstairs several times to look at Cemal, but he lay sleeping in exactly the same position. She touched his forehead; it was burning. In spite of having a high fever, he did not make the slightest move. Whether they liked it or not, they would have to spend another night in the ambassador’s house. The old man would be upset, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Meryem went to her own room early, got into bed, and tried to sleep. Rather than being upset by all that had happened, she was calm. She felt relieved that everything was out in the open and felt that life was about to take a new turn. She had almost no fears or doubts about the future. Her resoluteness and serenity astonished her, yet she enjoyed the power that was building up inside her.
The sweet caress of a gentle hand woke Cemal toward dawn. Without opening his eyes, he felt the clean, sweet-smelling hair and silky softness of a fiery body touching his own. He began to quiver at the touch of a woman. The innocent bride had really come and mounted him this time. His heart was pounding with excitement. He embraced her, holding his arms around her slim waist and tightened hips. A little later, he felt the girl’s forbidden area fluttering over his private parts like the wings of a butterfly, and he lost himself in a rush of pleasure. He did not want to open his eyes, but he knew he must. He did not want to lose the delightful sense of this lovely body ever again. He would open his eyes suddenly and see the face of the innocent bride for the first time.
Trembling with fear, he slowly opened his eyes and then closed them again, dragged into the dark corridors of a deeper sleep.
* * *
The day following that terrible night, the professor had been awakened by the piercing rays of the early-morning sun. His first thought was of death, to which he had peacefully surrendered in the darkness of the previous night. The smell of the teak deck, the breeze caressing his face, the sunlight burning his eyes, and the awful pain of the familiar headache were all so real that he sat up to look around him. The sailboat was turning on its own axis in the middle of the sea. He remembered that during the night he had pushed the button to release the anchor. When he thought that he had collided with a rock and the boat was being torn to pieces, he had actually been anchored in the offshore swell.
Realizing this made him neither happy nor sad.
He hurled the empty gin bottle into the water. His mouth tasted rusty, and his head ached as if it were in a vise. The only way to save himself was to throw himself into the sea along with the gin bottle. Jumping up, he threw himself overboard, falling into the sea just as the bottle had. He swallowed a little water. Grateful for the blueness washing over him, he stayed motionless for a while before twisting and turning himself in the water like an old dolphin left behind by its school.
When he returned to the boat, he felt so good that he believed he could endure the questions that filled his head and forget the previous night’s unpleasantness, but then he changed his mind. “You’ve been defeated,” he told himself.
Oddly enough, this thought pleased him. The feeling of submission and defeat made him indescribably content. The period of ambitious struggle, with all its fear and venomous questions, was over. He became resigned, like a commander who surrenders his castle to a stronger foe after years of resistance.
The questions running through his mind were many and varied: Was he Turkish? Aegean? Mediterranean? American? European? Middle Eastern? Muslim or atheist? Rich or poor? Man or not? Real or fake? Merciful or tyrannical? Ironic or sincere? Traditional or modern? Ostentatious or philosophical? Scientist or charlatan? Afraid of death, or not?
The calmness of surrender and the acceptance of defeat were better than bothering his head with hundreds of such questions, all of which could be united in one, unanswerable query: Who am I?
He knew exactly what he had to do. He would go to his mother, the person who loved him the most of all and who was always there for him; he would eat her wonderful food and let her introduce him to her inquisitive neighbors. He would visit his father’s grave with a bouquet of fresh flowers, find a modest job at an Aegean university, and live the same life as his father, even if different in status, in the same house for the rest of his life. That was the safest thing to do.
At the back of his head, he heard a mocking voice reminding him of an article he had read in Newsweek. The article had mentioned a new term, “Mammismo,” devised in Italy for elderly men who lived with their mothers. This term could be translated as “mama’s boy” or “mother’s pet.” Yet neither of these nicknames disturbed him. He had already accepted defeat, so life could trample on him or tear him to pieces as much as it wanted. It could be fun to start life from the bottom rung again. He laughed.
“Come on, mammone!” he cried. “First take the boat back—and be glad that you paid for it in advance!”
* * *
When Cemal woke up in the morning, the first thing he saw was Meryem’s pale face staring down at him. He sat up slowly, his body aching all over.
“Meryem,” he asked, “did you come in here during the night?”
“No,” she replied.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Two days. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. The ambassador wants us to leave.”
“All right,” said Cemal. “We’ll find someplace to go.”
“Find a place for yourself,” said Meryem.
“What? You’re coming along, too.”
“No.”
“Where will you go?”
“None of your business.”
Cemal looked at Meryem in disbelief. Her expression was determined, even hard. Her mouth was pursed defiantly, and she looked him straight in the eye, absolutely serious. Cemal was startled. “You can’t manage alone, Meryem,” he said. “Come with me.”
“No,” Meryem repeated. “Go back to the village.”
When Cemal heard the word “village” his face darkened, and his eyes flashed fire.
“I can’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll never go back to that sordid place!”
“Then go to Istanbul—to your brother or your friend. They’ll find you a job.”
Meryem took a fistful of banknotes from her pocket and gave them to him. “Here,” she said, “these will be of
use. Don’t worry; I have more.”
“Where did you get them from?” asked Cemal, looking at the money in disbelief.
“The professor gave them to me.”
Then, without saying good-bye, she turned and walked out of the room.
Cemal was suddenly overcome by a fear he had never felt before. Meryem was leaving him. He would never see her again. The thought pierced him like a piece of shrapnel. Tears welled up in his eyes. He ran after her and grabbed her arm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he shouted. “Do you hear? You are going to that boy at the pancake restaurant, aren’t you? Well, you’re not. I won’t let you.”
“Let go of my arm,” Meryem replied quietly. “You can’t stop me, whatever you do.”
Cemal shook her menacingly. “Come to your senses!” he shouted. “I’m going to teach you a lesson!”
He raised his arm as though to strike her. She shrugged.
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed.
Meryem stared into his eyes fearlessly.
Then Cemal felt like doing something he had never thought he could do. He wanted to kneel, put his arms around her knees, and beg her not to go. He was in a total panic, as if his life would end if the girl went out the door.
He wanted to beg Meryem’s forgiveness, even bury his head in her white dress and sob, but he just stood there, frozen.
Meryem looked at him in silence.
“Look after yourself,” she said, and left.
Carrying the scent of orange blossom with her, alone, fearless, and free, she walked along the sandy road beside the shore lapped by the waves and awakened by the breeze.
Her dress fluttered in the wind, and spray from the waves cooled her bare legs.
She heard the donkey bray three times.
“I’m coming. Don’t worry,” Meryem said.
In her mind, the pancake hut, now coming into view, was transformed into a bright, shining restaurant with pretty tables decorated with flowers. She touched the wad of money in her pocket.
If Mehmet Ali did not object, she would like to have FLAKY BUTTER PASTIES written in small colored lights over the restaurant, after it had been renovated.
The donkey brayed mournfully once again. As the sound echoed from the hill behind her, Meryem responded. “I’m coming!” she cried. “What’s your hurry!”
At last she could be sure that God loved her!
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BLISS. Copyright © 2002 by O. Z. Livaneli. Translation copyright © 2006 by O. Z. Livaneli. Translation by Çiğdem Aksoy Fromm. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Excerpt from “Away” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright © 1969 by Henry Holt and Company. Copyright © 1958, 1962 by Robert Frost, copyright © 1986 by Lesley Frost Ballantine. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Livaneli, Zülfü, 1946–
Bliss / O. Z. Livaneli.
p. cm.
In English, translated from Turkish.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36053-5
ISBN-10: 0-312-36053-3
I. Title.
PL248.L58B53 2006
894'.353—dc22
2006045828
Originally published as Mutluluk by Remzi Publishing in Turkey
First U.S. Edition: October 2006
eISBN 9781466859180
First eBook edition: October 2013
O. Z. Livaneli, Bliss: A Novel
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