The woman walked straight over to the man. She seemed to want to tell him something. Then she gave up on the idea, smiling to herself as if something amusing had just occurred to her, and set off for the ferry that was just coming around the edge of the next island.
She was the only woman on the ferry, and the only one without a ticket. But the number of passengers disembarking at Kadıköy was the same as the number of tickets. Not a single ticket more, not a single less.
On Spoon Island
Mücahit was at the head of the rowboat, holding two little oars. I was bent over at the very bottom because rowboats always made my head spin. I couldn’t see the water. All I could see was the bright sky above me shifting like running water. Odisya was singing something in Greek. Yakup was naked from the waist up and seemed to be listening. Sometimes moonlight flashed across his blue eyes. A boy whose name I didn’t know was sitting beside me. He had an unusually small face and his body was small. Every part of him was smalclass="underline" his hands, his ears and his eyes. We called him “Sultan Hamit’s dwarf.”
We were crossing over to Spoon Island. Robinson’s ghost was whirling inside us: Our ship had sunk and we were on a raft, we were bound for a deserted island, where we’d build a hut …
Reluctant to share our secret Robinsons, we all fell silent; the better to keep the dream alive. Seven of us on the boat, seven Robinsons in disguise. A single word would remind us that we lived on Burgazada, and that just an arm’s length away there was Spoon Island, which looked like an overturned spoon in the moonlight — it belonged to a man; that because he had no heirs the island would fall into the hands of the state when he died; that though the island was deserted then, it would eventually end up in the hands of half a dozen people; that they would build houses and maybe even clear the land for beaches. This enormous imaginary transatlantic liner we had built from huts and rafts and dreams and savagery would come crashing into an iceberg. Never again would we set out for Spoon Island by moonlight in search of adventure. Instead we teased Yakup and he stopped pulling off his shirt and dressing up like a savage, and he stopped trying so hard to shape his dreams to fit with ours.
When I raised my head, I saw that we were gliding into a bay with white rocks glimmering at the bottom of the sea. And there before us was a white building. Were our eyes fooling us? A building on a deserted island? Still no one said a word. Even Odisya’s Greek song died away. The little dwarf had rolled himself into a ball. The ones at the oars were angels soaked in sweat. Yakup wore the pride of an emperor. The children at the oars looked like slaves and Mücahit a cruel slave trader with a whip. The moment we stepped onto the sand, Yakup called us together:
“This building is an ancient Portuguese fort,” he said. “Portuguese pirates were the first to discover the island. They came and left the youngest one of their party behind. The fierce young pirate had disobeyed his king. Walk quietly. He might still be alive. Some say there’s a savage tribe on the island. We must be careful.”
Odisya and Yakup played the savage and the Portuguese pirate. They suddenly disappeared. Jackal went after them, barking. I was left alone with Sultan Hamit’s dwarf. The three other boys had set off for the old white building.
Spoon Island is full of cisterns. It’s very dangerous to run across the island, especially at night. We didn’t want to tumble down into the deep, dark water of a cistern hidden among the long weeds that swayed on the hilltops. So we watched where we stepped. The dwarf and I reached the top of the island. For a moment we stopped to look. In the distance, we could see that our three boys had lit candles in the windows of the white house. Further on, we could see the young Portuguese pirate’s mansion, built when the island was a farm with pig stables and wire fences, and later abandoned. It was far too dangerous to go inside. A gardener’s shed stood ten or fifteen meters in front of the stables. We could see it from where we stood. A light appeared in the window and we slowly made our way. We knocked on the door. Odisya opened it; he was alone with his dog. He had wrapped a garland of weeds around his head. He was wearing a baggy, striped shirt, and with his tanned chest, his bare feet, his blue eyes, his delicate and slender face, he was more of a pirate than Yakup would ever be. He was as beautiful and as savage as a pirate’s child. I was overcome by the desire to be one of his bandits. His most brilliant bandit. He was our king. Beyond the door I could see across to a beach on Heybeli that reminded me of a lovely little public square, and whose lights were slowly fading like the lights on a massive ferryboat.
Odisya began singing again. Yakup and the other children would listen to him till the end, then the little ones would find us and make us slaves; then we would lay siege at the Portuguese Manor and force surrender. Odisya would sing again, and Yakup would tell a story. Then we would go home. We would argue on the way back. Yakup would refuse to speak to the ones who had spoiled the game; Odisya wouldn’t sing and little Dwarf wouldn’t indulge us with his funny games.
We three — Odisya, Yakup and I — were the only real islanders. The others lacked the patience for friendship and adventure in particular. Yakup’s parents would hear about it, and they would try to stop us from setting out to the island. That’s why our numbers could suddenly drop to three. But still we’d jump in the boat and cross over. Sometimes we’d stay until morning.
Jackal waited at the white building’s open door while we slept inside, spinning our dreams from torn fishnets, corks and hooks. None of us ever told the whole truth. I only understood Greek. Odisya spoke good Turkish, and Yakup knew the odd broken, sweet phrase in Greek.
Odisya was the son of a gardener. He was the best swimmer among us, and he could fish, sing, row, and he had the best smile. He was a strange one. His mood could go sour without warning. It upset him enormously not to be taken seriously. The tiniest slight could turn his mood sour. The most innocent little word could cause him grave offense. Most of all he liked to fight. His face would turn yellow with confusion. He’d begin to stutter. Monsters didn’t scare him, and neither did people; other children might tremble at the thought of savages and Portuguese pirates, but not he … He was different with children and eccentrics: he treated them with respect. It angered me to see how the little ones made fun of him. They undid him: the courage he carried in his wild face and blond hair and muscular arms suddenly splintered. I think Yakup liked Odisya because he found him useful. He might need Odisya to take care of something for him, something low and dirty that he couldn’t do himself. He would get Odisya to do it by taunting him, saying he wasn’t man enough for the job.
One day we couldn’t find Jackal anywhere on the island so we crossed over to Spoon Island. We spent the night there.
Yakup said to Odisya:
“Just to be sure, you stand guard there by the door until the sun comes up. You can sleep during the day, and we’ll wait for you. Maybe the savages will attack!”
Odisya wasn’t a fool. But he was happy to play the part if it meant being a hero or doing a good deed for someone else.
Half asleep, I looked over and saw that Odisya was still awake. But before the sun came up, I lay down next to him and took his hand. Abruptly he rested his warm head on my chest and said:
“If my dad wasn’t some grunt of a gardener I’d be a real man like you guys, I’d go to school, and if I knew how to read I’d keep reading and never sleep.”
I lifted his head to the left. There were tears in his eyes. He let go of my hand. He got up and walked over to the pomegranate tree.