The company commander would sometimes park himself at the far end of the outpost and watch him from there. He seemed to take pleasure in seeing that the night patrols and the long days at the typewriter were wearing Ziya down, and his eyes sparkled with malice in which Ziya could see the stars on his shoulder reflected. But it must not have been enough, because one day he brought a truckload of pine saplings to the company headquarters. Some were no thicker than two fingers, others no longer than sweet marjoram, and then Ziya had to plant them one pace apart from each other, all along the base of the barbed-wire fence, around the company headquarters and the guard station, and along both sides of the dirt road at the back, while the commander looked on, smiling nastily. The moment he was finished planting, the commander beckoned to him from the window, and when he reached the office, the commander said, ‘You’ll be responsible for watering those saplings. I don’t want to see any dry soil around their bases!’ And as he said this, he didn’t look up once.
‘Yes, sir,’ Ziya said, struggling to mask his confusion.
‘And don’t let me see anyone else doing the watering. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ziya once again.
The commander let a soft smile form beneath his moustache as he shook his head.
And so, as if all the work he already did was not enough, Ziya was now rushing out to the water pump next to the flagpole every other minute to water the saplings. In the beginning a number of others, and most especially Kenan and Resul, took pity on him and offered to help, but Ziya stopped them every time. When they were all gathered together, he even begged them. ‘Friends,’ he’d say. ‘The commander doesn’t want anyone but me tending to the saplings, so please, please don’t water them without my knowing.’ And after that, they never picked up another watering can, of course; they just watched from a distance as Ziya dragged his feet, wearily carting his watering can from tree to tree. After a few days of this, Ziya’s hands were full of water, too: both palms were covered with little blisters.
The blisters had not even healed yet when the commander made a new decision: one evening he strolled in with his parka draped over his shoulders and, stopping in the doorway, his face went sour under the yellow light. ‘From this night on,’ he told Ziya, ‘you are going out on night patrol in my place.’ At which he turned on his heels and headed for the mud-brick houses beyond the barbed-wire fence, and as he looked at them, it seemed to Ziya that each had receded to its own hiding place under cover of darkness. Watching him go, Ziya thought he must be off to empty out the houses and line everyone up next to the well and do a roll-call. But that is not what happened: instead the commander walked softly, very softly, until he disappeared into one of the houses. From that day on, he was forever draping his parka over his shoulders and heading over to that house. He took great care with his appearance after that first time, even; before setting out, he would give himself a close shave, and shine his boots, and put brilliantine on his hair. But the most striking thing about the man crossing through the barbed-wire fence was that he’d become a new man, as soft as the scent of a linden tree. What no one could understand, of course, was how he could go through any of those doors wearing any face at all, after venting his rage on those people, and tying them to flagpoles to beat them up, and lining them up, young and old, next to the well, and peppering them with curses while he did the roll-call. Least of all Resul, who fretted about it for many long days. His theory was that they struggled to make ends meet with the pittance the state paid them, and so opened their doors to the commander out of fear. And when they had opened the door to invite him in, and sat him down on the sofa, and put a few cushions behind his back to make him more comfortable, and offered him a coffee, even — well, they felt obliged to smile, of course, so as not to be rude to their guest, and there was no doubt about it, this was the worst of the man’s tyrannies. For there could be no tyranny on this earth that was worse than making those you had tyrannised smile at you. Those poor people, after smiling like that for a few hours, the whole family would probably feel as tired as if they’d spent the whole day lifting rocks. On the other hand, since this commander could not or would not establish any sort of friendly relations with his men, it followed that he suffered from the isolation that power brings with it, and also he was probably thinking all the time about the home he’d lost, and so here he was, in this godforsaken place, pining away like a kitten in the rain, and longing for a warm hearth. And so even if those people opened their doors out of fear, and smiled at him out of fear, this powerful wretch of a man was going over there for no other reason than to enjoy the warmth of home. And this meant that he, too, was hiding behind false gestures, and if he made those false gestures as if he believed them, then in one sense, he was also tyrannising himself. In other words, it was a heart-wrenching scenario, whichever way you looked at it.
‘That’s what’s happening, don’t you think?’ asked Resul after saying all this.
‘How am I supposed to know?’ Ziya would reply. ‘What do I care about the commander? If he wants to go over and piss on them, then let him do it.’
He’d drink the last of his poison and, head spinning, climb into the jeep, which had so many bullet holes that it would soon become a sieve, and off he would go on his night patrol, with Ahmet of Polatlı behind the wheel. They would follow the same routine as if the commander had been sitting there next to him, driving up and down their section of the border, searchlights sweeping the night to the left and to the right, and never speaking. Whenever they passed, the guards would come out of their stations and stand on the side of the road, their rifles slung over their shoulders, and when they saluted they looked like shadows looming in the night. If he caught sight of Veysel Hoca, who was back from medical leave, or Hayrullah of Adana, or Serdar of Çorlu, or Osman of Selçuk, Ziya would tell Ahmet to slam on the brakes, and they would quickly exchange news. And after the jeep continued on its way, Osman of Selçuk would shake his fist at the dark, yelling, ‘Fuck off, you fucking village, fuck off!’
It was not just while he was driving that Ahmet of Polatlı kept silent; even when they stepped down, he held his tongue. Even when they heard gunfire or flares rising in the sky, he said nothing. With a grimness that seemed to be part of the jeep itself, he did exactly as Ziya said. So that was why, as they were creeping slowly towards Mezartepe through a black night that was thick with the scent of grass, Ziya couldn’t bear it any more, and asked him why he never spoke.
‘I’m preparing myself to die at any moment,’ said Ahmet.
His voice was as grim as his face.
‘I can understand that,’ said Ziya. ‘But there’s not even a skirmish going on right now.’
‘You don’t understand at all,’ said Ahmet, his voice quivering, and almost crying. ‘I’m not talking about a skirmish. That’s just a possibility. If that’s the fate that’s written on my forehead, then so be it. I’d die a martyr. But I’m not talking about something that might or might not happen. I’m talking about something that definitely will happen. I’m talking about something that is right in front of us, shouting in our face.’
Instead of asking Ahmet what he meant, Ziya looked at him.
‘There isn’t a soldier in this place the commander hasn’t crushed, as you know full well,’ Ahmet continued, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Everyone bears a grudge against him. They’re all waiting for their moment. And that’s why any of them could blow their top at any minute and pepper this jeep with their bullets. I’ll die at the hand of a soldier, that’s what I think. Wait and see. They’ll fire at the commander and they’ll end up shooting me with him, and for what?’