‘What’s up, boy?’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ziya.
No sooner had he said this than he felt something warming up his pocket. It felt like the feather he’d hidden there was in flame, was on fire. This fire continued burning while they ate. At times it was a medium flame. At times it slackened, only to flare up again as high as Ziya’s cheeks.
‘Something’s happened to you,’ said his father, as they moved on to the semolina pudding. ‘There’s something not right about the way you’re sitting.’
‘Honestly, nothing happened,’ Ziya replied.
And after that, to change the subject, he turned to his mother and asked, ‘Were you talking to Ebecik the Midwife? While I was sleeping, I thought I heard her voice. She went on and on. Muttering and muttering.’
‘We had a quick chat at the door,’ his mother answered. ‘But what I can’t understand is how you could have heard her from so far away, especially since you were asleep.’
‘It could have pierced his sleep,’ said his father. ‘As you know, not all sleep is the same. It has different phases. It’s shallow and then it’s deep, it curves and goes down tunnels and staircases and wells. Sometimes it’s so thick as to carry you off this earth, sometimes it holds you underneath a veil as thin as muslin. When sleep’s that thin, some things can pierce it. A sharp-edged memory, for example. Or sharp words that are still bothering us, or a thought that’s settled outside our minds, in our limbs, or a feeling that’s done the same, or something in our midst that we haven’t even noticed — things like these can pierce our sleep. And then, you see, you can’t see where it pierces on the inside, but you can on the outside. Of course it doesn’t look the same from there as it does in reality: the mist of sleep makes it look a little closer, or a little further away. That’s probably what happened. Ebecik’s voice came in through a hole like that.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ziya muttered in a gloomy voice, almost to himself. ‘I heard everything they said, anyway. Even her words of wisdom.’
‘She’s fond of those,’ said his father, nodding. ‘And after all, a long life opens the pores of the mind.’
Ziya said nothing.
‘You’re making me talk too much,’ said his father. ‘For a moment, I felt I was still back in class, teaching.’ With that he rose from the table. Stroking his stomach, he strode away to settle into the chair in front of the television.
That evening Ziya could not keep still. He wandered around huffing and puffing like a lunatic. Back in his room, he took the feather out of his pocket and tossed it into the courtyard. It sank into the night, a pale and forlorn blur until it lost itself amongst the dark and rustling leaves of his mother’s begonias. When Ziya lay his head on his pillow and closed his eyes late that night, he lost himself in the same way, swaying his way down, down, down until the night came to bury him. And that is why, when he woke up in the morning, Ziya went straight to the window, to look outside with sleep-clouded eyes. He was sure the feather must be there somewhere, but all he could see was a white cat crawling out of the lilies at the foot of the wall to climb up to the roof, never once taking its burning eyes off Ziya. There was some noise just then in the neighbours’ courtyard. Looking over the brick wall, he saw a few men carrying blue wooden chairs on their shoulders, a few women bending over, rising and bending over again, and a heavy-set young man going up to the roof to sit next to the chimney and watch the road while he basked in the sun.
‘The wedding’s about to begin,’ said Nurgül Hanım, when she saw Ziya at his window. ‘Since yesterday this house has been too small for you. So let’s get you breakfast and then you can go outside and watch.’
‘All right,’ said Ziya.
After breakfast he went outside, with the bird still in his mind.
By then, the neighbours had raised a flagpole from their chimney; just underneath they had put a large pine branch, which they had decorated with red ribbons, and strings of sweets, and popcorn, and balloons of all colours. Hands on hips, head thrown back, Hacı Veli was looking up happily at the embroidered flag. Then lethargy came over him. He pulled himself together and hurried over to the cooking pots in the corner of the courtyard, stopping next to the women busy chopping meat on boards. ‘Do you have enough meat?’ he asked. ‘Should I kill another goat?’
‘It would be a waste, master,’ one of the women replied. She tilted her head to one side, almost in deference for the goat that might be killed. ‘Soon the girl will be coming with Reşat’s gold on her forehead, bringing a ram from her household. We can’t forget that.’
‘All right, then,’ Hacı Veli mumbled.
After giving the piles of meat a good long look, he returned to the chairs lined along the wall. Waving fretfully in their direction, he said, ‘These have been waiting all morning for the musicians. What’s kept them so long?’
His son had come down from the roof, and now he stood there at the bottom of the ladder, dressed in his best and looking down at his father.
‘Take that ladder away,’ said Hacı Veli. ‘Don’t let it stay there. God protect us! Just think if some children got it into their heads to climb up there and lost their footing.’
The son picked up the ladder and disappeared into the house. ‘We’ve sent out the right favours with the right invitations, I hope?’ Hacı Veli called after him, leaning in his direction as he did so. ‘I hope we haven’t sent handkerchiefs to the houses that were supposed to get towels, or soaps to the houses that were supposed to get handkerchiefs, or matches to the houses that were supposed to get soaps, eh?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the son, coming back out of the house. ‘We took great care. Nothing got mixed up.’
‘Fine,’ mumbled Hacı Veli.
Then suddenly he remembered the tips, and thinking it would be discourteous to take out all that money and count it in front of so many people, he rushed back towards the house. His wife was just coming out with a tray of boiled vine leaves.
‘What a commotion!’ cried Hacı Veli when he saw her. ‘I completely forgot to do the tips!’
As she passed, his wife gave him a gentle smile.
Once inside, Hacı Veli sat down on the side of the sofa, took out his wallet of dark brown leather with flowers decorating the edges, and set about arranging the tips that he would soon be handing out left, right and centre. First he set aside the money for the musicians who were late arriving. He did so with some annoyance, crushing the notes under his thumb. Then he put aside the money for the cook who would, when the time came to feed the guests, stand in front of the pots and play games with him, saying This ladle just won’t budge, sir. Oh dear, I wonder what we should do? Then he put money aside for the men bringing the ram from the girl’s house, and after that for the men bringing in the baklava on that huge engraved tray. Who else did he have to tip, who else, and for what exactly? As he racked his brain, he remembered the person who was going to pound the meat and the wheat for the keşkek, and the person who was going to bring in the bride, whose carriage would take the turn too fast and graze the gate on the way into the courtyard where the wedding would be celebrated. The bride can’t get down here, he would say, this gate is too tight. Honestly. It just won’t let me in. Then he remembered his visit to the girl’s house for the dowry, and the child who would just sit there cross-legged on that trunk. As he put aside some more money, he could already hear that spoiled little voice. I’m not budging unless I get my tip in advance, by God, not even for the president! After doing all this he spent some time gazing in annoyance at the banknotes on the sofa, as these scenes played out in his mind.