And then, very suddenly, one of them asked Ali the Snowman if he knew the location of the snow well up in the mountains. He asked this as if it was something this man kept secret.
Ali the Snowman gave no answer, of course. He muttered something to himself, in a husky voice that seemed as strange, and as purple, as his swollen hands.
‘I asked you for a reason,’ the child now said. ‘I happen to know where that well is.’
He did not bother to raise his head, but Ali the Snowman erupted. ‘You don’t know shit!’ he snarled. ‘For twenty years now, I’ve been the only one who knows where it is.’
‘He really does know, honestly,’ cried another child, rushing to the front. ‘He told us all about it. Last year, when you went up there to cut out snow, he followed you.’
And suddenly, Ali the Snowman stopped moving. Fixing his eyes on the tip of the handsaw that was lodged deep in the snow, he stood very still, and breathed in deeply.
Exchanging glances, the children began to snigger.
Then the boy who had asked the question put his hands on his hips. Leaning back on his heels, he said, ‘If you give me a lump of snow for free, I won’t tell anyone where your well is.’
And then Ali the Snowman let go of the handsaw. Wet or not, he put his hands on his hips, and mimicking the boy’s voice, he said, ‘So tell me, my young lord. What if I say no? What will you do then?’
‘I’d tell everyone,’ the child replied. ‘And then, by God, we’d head on up there, all of us, and plunder it!’
‘So you’re saying you’d plunder it?’
‘Yes we would,’ declared the boy.
A vein was bulging on Ali the Snowman’s left temple. It ticked like a subcutaneous clock.
‘Every time, the same old tune,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Dear God, give me patience! I’ve had enough of this. But you. .’
The children fell silent.
Ali the Snowman cast them a disparaging look, and then he turned his green-flecked eyes away, and for the longest time he stared up at the cliffs overhanging the woods, and the slopes rising above the cliffs, and the shimmering purple summits, reaching up to the clouds. He stared up at them saying nothing, nothing at all. It was almost as if he was trying to make sure the snow wells were still there.
Then he turned back to the children and in an irritated voice he said, ‘You don’t have it in you. None of you. Go away before you drive me crazy. Be off with you! All of you! Now!’
But the boys just stood there, staring at him. They did not budge an inch.
‘As God is witness,’ Ali the Snowman said now. ‘I’ll pull you up over this snow wheel of mine, and one by one, I’ll chop off your little dicks! Do you hear? No money, no snow. Get going! Now!’
But the boys, of course, did not obey him. They just stood there, greedily eyeing the snow. Then one of the boys pushed Ziya gently aside to step outside the crowd. He had freckles all over his face, this boy. His hair was blond, his skin dry, and his chest was heaving like a bellows. As he made to return to his work, Ali the Snowman peered down at him warily.
‘It’s such a hot day,’ said the boy. ‘Look — it’s burning like an infidel’s pussy here. Why can’t you give us each a lump of snow — what’s stopping you?’
Ali the Snowman did not so much as move his mouth. He just waved his arm, glaring down at the boys as if to say, ‘Enough! Just go!’
And then, without warning, the boy lunged at the table.
When he saw this happening, Ali the Snowman swung around to fend him off, but it was too late. As he was turning, his arm went flying out and hit against the handle of the handsaw that he’d lodged so deeply into the snow wheel. And then, before he could ask himself what he had let himself in for, the snow wheel went flying off the oilcloth, and, leaving behind it a cool patch of nothingness, it hit the ground with a bang and disintegrated. And needless to say, Ali the Snowman did not know what to do. He just stood there, staring at the table, his eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open. The boys seized this opportunity to scatter like a flock of baby birds. In groups of three and four they flew off to take shelter in shop doors, side streets, and the nooks and crannies of distant courtyards. ‘You come back here, you pimps!’ he bellowed as he raced after them, stopping every now and then to stamp his feet, but he did not catch a single one. He just stood there in the middle of the square, waving and yelling, like a flag made of fury. And from time to time his voice would begin to crackle, and then a bolt of lightning would flash across the square, making a mind-splitting noise as it radiated out to catch the fleeing boys by the heels.
In time they straggled back, these breathless threesomes and foursomes, to gather around the old fountain. Their tongues were hanging out, of course, and so were their shirts. Their faces were red from fear and from running.
Even though they’d scattered far and wide, a few of them were still glancing over their shoulders, just to make sure Ali the Snowman wasn’t coming after them.
Seeing the fear in their eyes, the freckled boy told the others not to worry. ‘He’s given up on us by now, for sure.’
Clutching his stomach, another boy bent down to the ground and, in a feverish staccato, said, ‘He blew. His fuse. For good. You watch. He’ll be back.’
The freckled boy said nothing. But there was contempt in his stare.
And then, with a knowing and supercilious look, he said, ‘If I say he’s not coming, he’s not coming. Why don’t you use your brain for once? Do you think he’d leave the square, with all that snow scattered everywhere?’
‘He’s right,’ an older boy agreed. ‘There’s no way he’d leave the square. He’s probably busy picking it all up now. But the moment he’s done, we’ll hear him cawing again. Snow for burning hearts! Snow for all your aches and pains!’
‘I’ve never figured that one out,’ said another. He was sitting on the edge of the basin with his friends, leaning into the gurgling water. ‘As if snow cooled the whole body. What can snow do for a heart?’
‘When a heart gets burned or broken, it’s outside the body, that’s what,’ said the older boy. ‘Maybe it’s the body that’s outside the heart when that happens? But how should I know? As if I could know that kind of thing.’
And then he stretched out his arms, as if to leap into the sky. He bent his legs, stared into the distance and bent his legs lower. And then all of a sudden, he cried, ‘I’m so bored. Sooo bored. Let’s go and stone some birds!’
The boys came back to life with this suggestion. ‘Let’s go. Let’s stone some birds!’ some cried, their faces brightening. Others jumped for joy. Some, retrieving slings from their pockets, made as if to set their sights on imaginary birds. A few crouched down to gather stones, of course. Still crouching, they waddled across the ground like ducks, pocketing stones the size of marbles. And if any boy began to flag, another boy would urge him on, saying, ‘We need as many bullets as we can get, my boy!’ Sometimes they began to race against each other, as if gathering the last stones on earth. Others joined, circling wildly around the fountain, screeching and swooping, sly as hawks.
Unnerved by their bloodlust, Ziya could do no more than watch until one of the boys stepped away from the pushing and the shoving to run in his direction. ‘Hey! You! Why aren’t you gathering stones?’
Ziya would have answered, had he been given the time. For the boy who’d asked the question now jumped up so fast he left behind a blur the colour of his shirt. A weird and deathly wind blew in — a wind as wild and loud and heartless as the boys who had given birth to it — as the boy before him doubled over, snatching the sliver of time he’d have needed to form an answer.