He searched for a while longer that evening, and then, giving up, Ziya turned back. He cleared the table and took the tray inside. He’d had enough of people for the time being, so for a few days he went into the village only when he needed water, hurrying down to the fountain before the morning call to prayer and filling his plastic bottles in semi-darkness before hurrying away again.
One day Kenan came up and forced him to go with him to a wedding. It took place behind the Plane Tree Coffeehouse, this wedding, in the brick-walled courtyard of a house whose doors and windows were painted electric blue. By the time they arrived, almost everyone in the village was there already. On the front porch was a monstrous black four-legged contraption, flanked on each side by speakers that were even bigger and blacker. Some of the hymns blasting out of them were sung by a chorus, and others by a man with fire in his soul. Standing in front of all this was a young man in a black suit and pointy shoes. He worked for the wedding agency in town, and there were four others mingling with the crowd, all dressed the same. They were serving cakes and drinks to the guests, and looking as if they could not wait for the wedding to be over. As they picked up their plastic cups and flimsy paper-thin cake plates, the guests looked much the same. Nowhere in this gathering could Ziya see any sign of elation. As they listened to the songs blasting from those speakers — prepare yourself, my friend, the Angel Azrael is nigh, dear God, take me in, or the earth was crying for Hamza, the sky was crying for Hamza, and the swords were searching for Hamza — even the children stood around them, still as kittens that had spilt the milk. The grown-ups listened to these songs with a despondency even greater than their singers. They would nod sadly, as if to confirm the truth in the words, or cup their chins to stare into the distance, thinking deep and mournful thoughts, and all this made it seem as if it was not a wedding going on in this house, but a funeral.
And then a fat man with a toothbrush moustache signalled to the employee standing in front of the sound system, and he changed the CD. And as soon as the music changed, the mood in the courtyard lifted. Without a word they sailed towards the front of the house, as smoothly as if the ground was slipping beneath their feet. And now the bride and groom stepped through the door. And there they stood in silence, side by side. The man with the brush moustache gave another signal, and the man on the porch stopped the CD, removed a microphone from its box, and took it over to the bride and groom, trailing the cable behind him as he ran. After he had tested it — One two three. Se se se. One two three. Se se se — he announced that the time had come for the collection ceremony and that the bride’s and groom’s families would go first. One by one, they came forward. A villager who knew who they all were would whisper into his ear, and the man with the moustache would broadcast their name, and then their gift. A gold piece for the bride, from the father of the groom! A wristwatch for the groom from the bride’s mother! A big piece of gold from the bride’s uncle!
He was watching all this when suddenly Ziya felt a pang. Then he remembered how at Hacı Veli’s wedding they had all averted their eyes, so as not to see what the others had given as gifts.
He touched Kenan’s arm. ‘I’m heading back.’
‘Why? What’s got in to you all of a sudden?’
‘I just want to go home and remember what village weddings were like when I was a boy,’ he said.
Kenan looked at him blankly.
And that was how Ziya left him. He left the wedding behind him and went straight back to the barn. Then he collapsed on to the bench by the door, put his head in his hands, and just sat there. Then, when he had caught his breath, he lit up a cigarette and turned to look up at the mountaintops. And there it was — that nameless shadow no one else could see. Still in the same place. Still the same shape. He shivered, as if something cold had brushed against his skin. After that he began to feel cold, so he went inside.
The brambles beyond the sheep pens had gone dry by now. There was nothing left but a great expanse of scrawny branches. The leaves had fallen from the poplars, and the fruit trees, and the vines. The grass had gone brown, and the thorns, and the flowers. And in addition to all this, the air had cooled. Cooled a great deal. A mist began to fall, very slowly, over the mountains just then, spilling its white foam over the cliffs and the pine forest, until it had reached the oak trees. Here and there it tore like a piece of gauze, looking as if a tree or a hilltop had been cut adrift to float up into the sky. With these apparitions came gusts of moist air, until suddenly it began to rain. It had not been raining every day — just every other day. First it would come down gently, as if through muslin. Then suddenly it would come down much faster and more heavily. And lightning would strike the mountain’s faces, bringing with it giant claps of thunder. The cliffs would blur into the trees, and the trees into the empty spaces between them. The sky would rip apart, and when it ripped, he could hear it echoing in his heart. And as he stood there watching, Ziya would feel joy in his heart, too. Sometimes he would watch through the window. Sometimes he would put on his coat and take his tea outside, to watch from the bench beside the door. When the lightning hit the face of the mountain, glittering grey and blue, it lit him up inside, too. He could even feel the rain pattering inside him, and the mist descending, and the sky spreading, while the scent of earth and stone caressed his mouth, his nose, his skin, his eyes.
He was watching just such a rainstorm that night when suddenly Besim came running up to the window. His yellow phosphorescent raincoat — a gift from his father in Germany — was streaming with water, its edges caked in mud. Seeing Ziya at the window, he opened his mouth and stared at him with fearful eyes. Then he cried, ‘Ziya Bey, Ziya Bey! Hurry, Ziya Bey! They’ve stabbed my uncle!’
7. The Shadow
Ziya quickly overcame his shock. Throwing on his coat, he rushed outside.
‘Was it Numan who knifed him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Besim. ‘It was Kâzım the Bellows Man!’
A new wave of shock crashed over Ziya, and as he stared down at the village, it was almost as if he expected to see the attack play itself out before his eyes. And then, without waiting to ask where Kenan had been knifed, he went coursing down to the village. Besim raced alongside him, his yellow phosphorescent raincoat streaked with mud. When they reached Kenan’s house, the rain was still pouring down like water from a pitcher. From time to time, the night was lit up by flashes of lightning, and with every thunderclap, the sky itself collapsed on them, as its echoes shuddered across the ground. Knowing that they would arrive sopping wet, Nefise was waiting at the door with two towels. Next to the door there were many pairs of shoes, some turned upside down, and some lying on their side. There were more shoes strewn across the floor. Ziya cast aside his coat. Taking the towel from Nefise, he stood in the white-walled hallway, and when he had dried himself, he stepped inside.