‘Dear, dear,’ said Cevriye Hanım. Turning to Nefise, she said, ‘You’d better go and see what’s happening. It wouldn’t do for me not to be here at home right now.’
Nefise jumped to her feet and ran to the courtyard gate.
‘Wait a minute!’ Cevriye Hanım cried, rushing after her. ‘Take a few gözlemes with you. Make sure she eats them when they’re still hot, the poor thing.’
Nefise turned around and piled a few gözlemes on to a little tray, which she covered with a white cloth, after which she vanished with the boy who was waiting for her at the gate,
Cevriye Hanım went back to sit down in the silent courtyard, and for a long time she did not move. Her thoughts went to her neighbour Fatma, and her pangs, and to her helpless helper Nefise, and to Numan, who had the face of a bandit, and who had been haunting their door for years now hoping to marry Nefise, and his brother Cabbar. And then, for a moment, she frowned and looked fiercely into the distance, as if Numan were standing there before her, pressing her with all manner of promises. Then she thought, no one could ever go that far, my dear. Everyone has some propriety. Then she stood up and strolled over to the chickens; bending over, she watched them for some time as they moved across the ground like little strobes of light. And as she watched, she spoke to them, very softly: ‘Hey there, you blessed creatures. You have souls, too, don’t you know?’ Unruffled, the chickens continued on their way, brushing against her skirt from time to time as they pecked at the ground. And Cevriye Hanım walked on, very slowly, first to survey the onions lying at the foot of the courtyard wall, and then back to the table. Sitting herself down on one of the white plastic chairs, she looked over her left shoulder at the courtyard gate.
And then suddenly, as if it had been waiting for her to do just that, the gate opened up, and in came Kenan, with Ziya just behind him.
‘So, Mother,’ said Kenan, as she rose to her feet. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my friend.’
Ziya walked over to kiss Cevriye Hanım’s hand.
Though shaded by her headscarf, her unblinking eyes shone as brightly as if he were a long-lost relative.
‘Welcome, my child, you have come in peace. You’re here at last, so please, come in.’
They sat down at the table.
And still Cevriye Hanım kept her eyes on Ziya. She was staring at him with such affection as to put any man ill at ease. As she searched for something to say, she cleared her throat now and again.
‘Where is Nefise?’ asked Kenan, as he looked around him.
‘She’s at the neighbour’s,’ Cevriye Hanım replied. ‘So you see to the tea, why don’t you.’
Kenan stood up.
And as he did so, Cevriye Hanım turned back to Ziya. ‘My child,’ she said, ‘we count you as one of the family. Because for years now, you have been remembered, with love, and longing, and gratitude. So please, relax, and make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ziya, looking ashamed. ‘Thank you so much.’
And then, in a voice as soft as silk, Cevriye Hanım asked after his parents, and his relatives.
‘I lost my parents years ago,’ said Ziya. ‘And quite a few of my relatives, too. They’re all gone, I’m afraid. A few of my uncle’s children are still with us, but we don’t see much of each other. I’m not even sure where they live. It’s the way things are now. Everyone’s scattered.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Cevriye Hanım, nodding slightly as she stared into the middle distance.
There followed a short silence.
‘I know only too well,’ Cevriye Hanım then said. ‘This relative business, there’s no way to solve it. Sometimes you crumble inside to keep the bonds alive, and sometimes you let the bonds crumble just to keep yourself together. One way or the other, it keeps most people hanging. It leaves them in the lurch. And also, we all have to suffer the same number of deaths as we have relatives. And that brings a lot of pain. And what a shame it is that there are those who only make peace with their relatives once they’ve lost someone. Yes, that’s the way it goes. Those are the games that life plays with us. Or maybe it’s the noise of life that makes us so neglectful.’
‘What noise?’ asked Kenan, as he placed the tea tray on the trivet.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘We’re just sitting here having a friendly chat, that’s all.’
Kenan smiled.
‘May it continue for ever.’
Then Besim joined them. Bowing his head in embarrassment, he walked over to Ziya and held out his hand. And for a moment, Ziya thought of the son who had died in his wife’s stomach. As he stood up, he felt a weakness in his knees. Grabbing the side of the table, he looked the boy over, as he thought: ‘So if he had lived, he too would be a strapping young man like this by now.’ As he shook the boy’s hand, he felt almost as if he was touching his own son, and he shivered.
‘Besim is my one and only grandchild,’ said Cevriye Hanım. ‘His mother and father work in Germany.’
The tulip-shaped glasses were waiting on the table now, all lined up in a row. After pouring the tea, Kenan set the tray of gözlemes in the centre of the table and unwrapped the cloth. Besim helped him, taking great care as he passed out the purple-patterned porcelain plates, the knives and forks and paper napkins. And then, for a time, they sat there in the shade of the mulberry tree. With a lilt to her voice, Cevriye Hanım told Ziya about her village, and her relatives; she spoke of her childhood, of days spent wandering the hyacinth-scented mountains with herds of goats, of nights in horsehair tents which rocked to the distant cries of wolves, and then she told him of the pine tree under which she had first seen her late husband. She told him how her heart had pounded, boom boom boom, and how, one spring day, she had come to be married, fully veiled atop a chestnut horse. She told him how kind and courteous and highly regarded both her late in-laws had been, how they had treated her well from the very first day, and how they had died, much too soon. How she had packed up her food each morning and slung it over her back to go and till the fields, while at the same time caring for her children in their red wooden cradles. How they had grown quickly out of their unruly childhood ways to become such lovely people. And then she talked about her eldest daughter Ayşe and her husband Fehrettin, who had left their child to go to Germany, just to earn a crust of bread, and how they had been living there for so many years now, missing their country all the while. And after she had spoken of all this, she came around to Kenan’s military service.
‘I’m speaking as a mother,’ she said, leaning forward to look straight into Ziya’s eyes. ‘And I want you to know that I am eternally grateful for what you did for my son when you were in the army together.’
Ziya shot a look at Kenan.
For a moment, they came eye to eye, but Kenan lowered his head, needlessly picking up his spoon to stir his tea, as if he had only just added the sugar.
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Ziya, but when Kenan kept on stirring he looked back at Cevriye Hanım with surprise. ‘What is this good thing I did for Kenan?’
Cevriye Hanım leaned back and smiled, after which she stared for a time at her napkin, misty-eyed as only the sublime can be. And all the while, that napkin’s white played on her face, rippling ever so lightly across each wrinkle and crease.
‘I just know,’ she said. ‘Refined people like you are always like this, you forget your good deeds, and even if they’re not forgotten, you never speak of them. So it seems you have forgotten. . But who knows, it could also be that you do not wish to speak of it. But in the face of such modesty, I honestly don’t know what I can say now. Let’s leave it there. The last thing I’d want to do would be to make you blush by embarrassing you needlessly. But I hope you’ll permit me to say one last thing: I know that my son owes his life to you.’