Short
Stories
Fingers
by Dursaliye SAHAN
As she fed the thick material rapidly into the machine her left
hand moved to the next piece in the bundle. With
every piece the rattle became a little quicker. The
sound of the clothes stick would also quicken as the
pile of clothing on the rock by the side of the stream
rose higher.
She had liked the sound of the clothes stick and she also liked
the rattle of the machine. She had sometimes stopped
and straightened her headscarf and dreamt of which boy
she would marry as she watched the water flow by...
She now had no time on the machine to stop and think
but occasionally she would slow it down and wonder who
her children would marry when they grew up, what work
they would do and, most of all, try to calculate how
much Miho had lost gambling the previous week.
She would often remember the small hamlet where she had been born. She
missed its air, water, grass, earth, animals and the
smell of dried animal dung. In the last years before
she had come here the smell of gunpowder had become
all-pervasive. Even the plants had turned a different
shade of green. The earth had become a greyish
yellow as if it had vomited. Summer and winter
became confused. There were village guards, soldiers,
Apocular (1)... They had been poor before but now they
would be short of food by the end of winter. She
had most of all felt sadness about her mother and sister. She
had also felt sorrow about her elder brother and grandfather
but the loss of her mother and sister had wounded her
heart in a different way and knotted her insides. She
had never thought it would happen to them, even though
there were funerals in the hamlet most weeks. Why
hadn't it occurred to her that her mother and sister
might die?!
She had cried for days. Then she had thought God was punishing
her. Two days before her mother died she had heard
that her betrothed Huseyin had been killed while doing
his military service. She had suddenly felt great
relief. She had not told anyone apart from her sister. She had not said anything
when everything had been agreed, but she had never liked
Huseyin. She had only seen him from a distance. He
was very large. She had looked at her mother, who
snapped at her: "What are you saying, girl? What
more do you want? Of course a man should be large, what
do you want with a small one? Who better would have
you? People must have governments and women owners." She
and her sister had wondered if God would be offended,
but she had been relieved anyway.
She had her eye on Miho. His family had three oxen and his
mother didn't like any of the girls in the village.
One Friday her betrothed Huseyin's body was brought to the village.
A NCO had brought the body and four pieces of paper
to the headman of the village. They were documents
of martyrdom for Huseyin's mother, father, betrothed
and to the other villagers. His mother pushed away
the certificate, saying: "I didn't give birth to
my child for him to be a martyr. I didn't bring
him up to be the target of stray bullets," as she
wept at the head of the coffin, too small for her well
built son. Zilan had also cried into her headscarf
as it was not considered respectable for young girls
to laugh or cry publicly, or to speak in a loud voice. Talkative,
laughing, shouting girls and newly-married women were
frowned upon. "Women should not speak, they
should remain quiet," her mother would say.
A week had not yet passed before Rustem Agha [landlord] sent an
envoy asking for her hand in marriage. Her heart
had missed a beat. Rustem Agha had two wives and
14 children. 17 people lived in his little two
-room house. He was called a landlord on a count
of his 60 'cediklik' of land. They also
would only just make it through the winter. But
it was apparent that the oversexed man wanted a new
bride, a young woman. Her father had said, "We'll
think about it," in a reluctant way. He had
obviously thought that the bride price would be low. Three
days later her elder sister had been shot when taking the sheep to the meadow to join the other
flocks. The crops had yet to be reaped.
It was not clear whether the Apocular or the village guards (2)
were responsible. She had frozen when she saw her
sister lying lifeless facedown on the grass. She
would constantly see her bent body. The end of
her clothes was visible. She had a pair of baggy
cotton trousers exactly the same. Their mother
had made the trousers for them the religious festival
before she died. When her sister's body was being
washed on the funeral slab she had taken her sister's
trousers and her own without washing them and put them
away in her chest. She still had them. Whenever
she saw them her eyes would moisten. On every Ramadan
festival she would take the trousers out of the chest
without showing them to anyone and press them to her
face, breathing the smell in deeply. How they had
laughed as they had pressed the thin sheets of pestil
(3) and worked the embroidery canvas on the long winter
nights. While her mother had knitted socks from
goat's wool they had prepared cushion covers and sheet
corners with red, green and indigo threads coloured
with plant dyes. They would string row after row
of beads. They learned together how to count to ten. "Don't
go beyond ten," her sister said, "ten is not
bad, if we learn to count our toes that will be enough
for us". How she had cried. After they
had died she had counted the days one by one until ten. Then
she had gone mad as she could not count any more. Her
pain intensified.
It was as if she had thoroughly lost her sister. She really
wanted to be able to count her toes. She couldn't
ask her father and her grandfather couldn't count either. She
asked her 9-year-old brother but he could only count
to five. She told him to ask older children but
he didn't.
One day while beating clothes at the stream she found a new method
for counting her toes. She would give each one
a name: husband, bride, child, earth, millet, food, fire, soldier, gun,
corpse. While joyously counting she saw village
guard Husam.. he was watching her try to count her bare
toes and staring at her in a strange way. She had
not been frightened. What could Squat Husam do? Still
she had slowly gripped the stone under her hand when
Miho suddenly appeared from between the bushes. When
Husam saw Miho he was startled, saying: "I thought
you were the Apocular", and hurried away. Miho
asked her if he had said anything. Zilan's mind
was on her toes as she asked excitedly: "Miho,
do you know how to count?"
Miho was surprised, answering: "Of course." Zilan
asked him: "Miho, could you teach me. Tell
me once and it'll be enough." She wanted to
be able to count the nights since her sister and mother
had died and know how many days had passed. Miho
started to scratch the surface of the earth. Zilan's
heart sank. Miho, too, could only count to ten.
The next day Zilan had worked out using her own method how many
days had passed since her mother and sister had died
when Miho again appeared between the bushes. He
had learned how to count to 15, and there wasn't much
use in learning more.
The next day Miho came again. Zilan was intending to ask him
if he had learned to count when he said: "My mother
wants to arrange a marriage for me with Gulizar. "Gulizar
was a pretty girl. She was a very fast weaver. Her
elder brother lived in Istanbul. No girl in the village
had a bottom drawer like hers. Zilan said: "Congratulations." Miho
looked Zilan in the eyes and said: "Zilan, I'm
going away from here. "He mentioned far away places. He
spoke rapidly. He swore that those who left were
not infidels. As Zilan collected up her washing
and was about to depart he took her hand and said:"
Come with me, Zilan. They'll soon marry you off
to someone like Rustem Agha in any case. Your betrothed
has been shot. [adin ikiye cikti??] I won't come back
until Gulizar has been married."
Zilan was about to say, "It's impossible" when she felt
the warmth of Miho's palm in her hand. A man's
hand had not touched hers before. How nice it was".
What had they talked about after that? It wouldn't be right
to tell. Moreover, Gulizar was her friend. But
Rustem Agha?
Miho spoke even more rapidly than usual: "Tonight they're
coming to collect me the ones ... in the mountains."
So Miho, too. If her father heard she had talked to him he
would kill her. "No good will come from them...
The state is powerful... They kill the villagers.. It
is wrong to go up in the mountains." The previous
winter they had come to take her elder brother. He
had been scared and did not want to go. Her father
had given them half their winter provisions. Her
mother had complained all winter that they would starve
and not see the spring. Her father had looked up
at the mountains, saying, "They are hungry, too...
What can they do. Keep quiet and be thankful for
what you have." He would also secretly advise
her brothers: "Keep your distance from the ones
in the mountains. When they come we'll feed them
of course, as they are our people, but keep away from
them."
If he heard now that she had run away with one from the mountains...
Was Miho one of them? It was unheard of in her
hamlet. If the military heard they would take her
away immediately.
Miho shook Zilan by the arm; "When night falls and everyone
goes to bed go down below the village and wait at the
mouth of the old cave. Don't bring anything heavy,
we have a long way to go. Wrap up warm, eat a lot
of bread before you leave and drink water afterwards."
They had met up with the ones in the mountains towards morning. They
had walked for a night and a day before reaching the
camp. How lovely it was, how they had enjoyed themselves.
She and Miho had got to know and love each other in that camp. They
had stayed there for 3 months. Their wedding had
taken place there. Miho was as happy as a child. Had
her sister's spirit seen her then with Miho?
In the camp a girl called Berivan had taught them how to count
to 100. How easy it was. By the time they
had arrived in London (in Zemheri) [4] she could recognise
the letters. 8 years had passed so quickly. How
much she had learned. She had met so many people. She
had had three children. Miho had learned to gamble
and had taken up smoking.
Betul, the Cypriot woman working on the next machine would ask
her: "Why do you give your money to your husband? Let
him go hungry, then he'll work. Don't let yourself
be exploited." How could Zilan do that to
Miho? Who apart from Miho knew her sister, mother, brothers
or the plants they had gathered from the lower slopes
of the mountains in spring to make soup? Or the story
of the two pairs of cotton trousers from the hamlet?
If Zilan lost Miho what would she do all alone in London?
- . -
Footnotes
1:Apocular - supporters of Abdullah Ocalan, leader of
PKK, which waged a guerrilla war against the Turkish
Government from 1984-1999.
2: village guards – villagers employed and armed by the government
to fight against the PKK with the security forces and
to act as informers in their village.
3: pestil – fruit pulp, usually apricots, grapes
or mulberries, squeezed out into thin sheets. Eaten
as a dried fruit.
4: Zemheri – old term for depth of mid-winter,
month of January.
= = = = =
Come
on smiling
It
was raining. The whole street was wet and muddy. I was
frozen. The weather was grey and people were not looking
happy, neither was I. I was so tired and had no wish
to do anything. I wanted to go home and just sit in
front of the fire and have a very hot cup of tea. I
mean Turkish tea, without any milk. (Have you ever
tried tea without milk, just add a little bit of sugar.
You should try it really. If you want to taste real
tea.)
Anyway
I was walking home quickly to have my hot Turkish tea.
Suddenly I saw him. He was in a car. He looked at me
and he smiled just for a few seconds and passed. No
no, he did not think I was a hitch-hiker or I was looking
for a man. Not at all. I am absolutely sure. He was
in a blue car. He had brown and curly hair. He was about
35 to 40. (I was 27. 15 years ago I mean.) He
had an olive complexion. He had a black moustache. I
hated moustache but it surred him. He wasn't wearing
a tie. He was wearing a white shirt with pink stripes.
He had very white and smooth teeth. He looked very honest...
Was he tall? I don't know. Was he fat? I don't think
so. What did he do? I mean what was his job? I don't
know really. Was he rich? I don't think so. Was he poor?
I can't say anything because he had a car. But maybe
he was working for a company; maybe the car was belonged
to a company.
But
I am sure he wasn't a macho man. He was such a friendly
man.
Anyway.
I always looked for some body (I don't care she or he),
who looks like him, for become a friend, but I still
haven't found him or she.
If
you see somebody, it doesn't matter; if it is a woman
or a man, just smile at him or her. You will make them
very happy, maybe they will not forget your face like
me. Who knows?
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