‘I have,’ said Nurgül Hanım. ‘If you want the truth, a few hours ago I had no idea what to make. I kept changing my mind, but then I decided to make stewed haricot beans. With pilaf, pickles and semolina pudding.’
‘That sounds good,’ said Ebecik the Midwife, fiddling with her prayer beads, ‘very good indeed, but I’m surprised, because you can’t make stewed haricot beans just like that, you know, you have to decide the day before. You don’t need to do much: you just bring it to a boil and let it sit in its own water. The next day you need to throw that water away, most definitely. There’s nothing on this earth that does more harm. It gives you gas, it darkens the beans, and it keeps us from enjoying the sight of those beans sparkling. As God is my witness, what you need to do is to wash those beans after getting rid of that water, and then cover them with water — three fingers above the beans — and then cook them over a low flame, but at this point you must pay close attention to the rhythm of the boil. As you know, every dish has its own rhythm when it boils. So, for instance, when you’re cooking bulgur, it sounds like this: lady’s thigh bone, lady’s thigh bone, lady’s thigh bone. But when you’re cooking dolmas, or pilaf wrapped in grape leaves, it should sound like this: beggar’s dick, beggar’s dick, beggar’s dick. If you don’t keep adjusting the flame, you might produce different sounds altogether, and no good can come from that. So you need to pay close attention to those haricot beans when you’re boiling them. They should just bubble as softly as whispers, never more than that, and that way they won’t go to pieces. They’ll just lie there, playing dead. They won’t stick to each other, they’ll just lie there, each one sparkling like these beads of mine, each one saying, “Here I am!” After all this, of course, you need to cook your finely chopped onions with green peppers in oil, and tomato purée, and pepper purée, too. None of this putting green peppers to swim about the sauce like the sultan’s caïques. You should chop them so that they are no more than twice the length of the beans. At the end of the day, this is a dish that requires a great deal of care. For example, it’s a good idea to throw in two or three cloves of garlic; it brings a certain extra something to the palate. In any event, someone somewhere might be longing for this dish made just this way, so in my view, it’s best to leave it there.’
Nurgül Hanım smiled softly.
‘When we talk about food, we should do a good job of it,’ said Ebecik the Midwife. ‘People don’t take food seriously, but they should. Never skimp on the food you make for your husband, my beauty. Winter or summer, he’s in that classroom with those screaming children from dawn till dusk. And well, you know what they say, the road to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You might think that’s just a turn of phrase, but whatever you do, don’t forget it. Because it really is true. It takes me back to the days of the sultans and beys and aghas. As you know, they would bestow upon their grand viziers and generals and chamberlains their own shirts and coats and jackets and boots. This was not just to make them happy, and it wasn’t just to show them their worth; it was so as to become part of them. Because when their men wore these gifts, they would, without even knowing it, start thinking like their masters. And it’s more or less the same with food, my beauty. Your husband is not just eating your food — he is taking in the heat that has dropped into the pot from your eyes and your hands. Even if he doesn’t come to share your thoughts, he’ll come closer to your way of feeling as he eats. Whatever you say, he’ll warm to it. He’ll look on it kindly. And that’s important, how warm his looks are, and his hands. Do what you will, but mark my words. Whatever happens, it is through food that we pass on this warmth. Don’t you think that it ends there, either: even if you don’t kiss him goodbye at the door each morning, make sure you touch his shoulder, because no matter what, his mind will be going back to it all day. And in his mind, it will become warmer than it actually was. Then, before long, he’ll long to return to it. Because wherever we happen to be, we mortals move towards warmth. But never mind. I’ve talked myself to a standstill. I’d best be on my way.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Nurgül Hanım warmly. ‘Look, we’ve talked so much about your haricot beans. Why not eat with us this evening?’
Ebecik the Midwife lifted herself up and, leaning against the courtyard wall, looked out at the smoke rising from behind the mud-brick houses at the far end of the street.
‘That’s very kind, my girl. Very kind indeed,’ she said. ‘But I’m off to my son’s house tonight. We’ve planned a gathering, and my youngest daughter is going to join us. They’ll be there already, with their eyes on the door. They’re probably wondering where I am. The best of health to you!’
‘And the best of luck to you,’ murmured Nurgül Hanım.
Then she turned her head towards the street. After giving it a good, long look, she turned away suddenly and rushed back into the house.
Ziya was in his room, still asleep, as before.
‘Time to wake up,’ she said. ‘Your father will be home any minute. And what’s all this anyway? Sleeping in the middle of the day!’
Ziya stirred slightly.
‘Don’t just lie there. Time to get up!’ said Nurgül Hanım in a reproachful voice. ‘Your mother almost got carried off by a whirlwind and you slept through the whole thing!’
Slowly, Ziya raised his head. He was still half asleep. He couldn’t understand what his mother was saying.
‘Who was taking who?’ he asked. ‘Where?’
‘The whirlwind,’ said his mother. ‘The whirlwind, I said. The whirlwind!’
Ziya said nothing. Sitting up, he slowly pushed his blanket to one side, and at just that moment, amongst the yellow flowers, just where he’d seen that stain that resembled a bird, he found a feather. First he just looked at it, not knowing what to do. Then he slapped his hand over it, and then he gave his mother a sidelong look, to see if she’d noticed. Nurgül Hanım had gone to the window to watch the sun falling on the leaves of the begonias; she’d seen nothing. Ziya relaxed, just a little. But at the same time, he was wondering if that stain had actually been a bird, and if that bird had left behind a feather. When his mother left the room he put the feather straight into his pocket, and went out to sit at the table in the sitting room, quiet as a shadow.
That’s where his father found him when he came in.