A week after Kenan first noticed the shadow, it snowed in the village for an entire day. And soon every courtyard, every lane and vineyard and hill and mountain was as white as Uncle Cevval. The houses moved away from each other, as each sank into its own solitude, and sent up its own trail of grey smoke. Eager to see more, Kenan pulled himself along the walls to get outside the next day, and tried to walk in the knee-deep snow. It was late in the morning, and the courtyard was sparkling in the snow-light, almost, and as he went back and forth with a blanket hanging from his shoulders, he looked thinner and shakier than he really was. Besim was sitting in front of the door, a cardigan on his shoulders. He was looking at the mountains, lost in thought.
And that was the day that Kenan fell, right there in the courtyard, and died.
They washed him with their tears and the water they boiled in sooty cauldrons. They wrapped him in a shroud and over this they draped a green rug with golden tassels at each end. When they left the courtyard with that green-covered coffin, Ziya was amongst the pallbearers, but after he had gone a few steps, one of the villagers had to come to take his place. Moving with difficulty through the drifting snow, they left the village with a large and silent crowd behind them. When the pallbearers turned past the sheep pens to climb up the hill towards the barn, Ziya didn’t know what to think. He looked wildly at those around him. But they continued flowing past him, their grief-stricken faces half hidden by their caps. They were purple from the cold. On they went up the hill, losing their balance from time to time as they struggled to keep up with the coffin.
Fifteen or twenty metres beyond the barn, just beyond the hedge, they entered the cemetery on the other side of the hill. In stops and starts, they carried the coffin to the grave they had already prepared. Ziya was only able to throw three shovels of earth over it; when his eyes filled up with tears, one of the villagers came and took the shovel from his hands. Ziya moved to the back of the crowd, and watched the rest through tears. After the grave had been closed, the mourners began to disperse, and he followed after them hopelessly, struggling through the snow. Sometimes, when he stumbled into a ditch or a drift as high as a gravestone, he sank into it. And then, even as he struggled to get back on his feet, he would, without willing it, look back at those snow-covered gravestones, his eyes brimming with tears. Once, when he looked back like that, he saw a gravestone behind the almond tree, and there he saw the name Hayati. That reminded him of Hayati of Acıpayam, of course. And his insides began to tingle. He could almost hear him talking to him, from inside that outhouse behind Seyrantepe. Just then, Ramazan the Grocer came up and reached out a hand to help him out of the ditch. And that is how they ended up walking side by side in silence. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Ziya slowed down to look back at the cemetery. Then he said, ‘I had no idea the cemetery was that close to my house.’
‘It’s not the cemetery that’s close to your house,’ said Ramazan. ‘It’s your house that’s close to the cemetery.’
Ziya said nothing and carried on walking.
‘It’s in just the right place,’ said Ramazan, after they had walked a few paces. ‘You know what they say. Build your house near the cemetery, and far from the mosque.’
‘I do know,’ Ziya said.
And that was the last thing either said until they reached the village.
Here Ziya parted company with Ramazan and went on to Kenan’s house. He offered his condolences to Cevriye Hanım, Nefise and Besim. And then he walked through the crowd of wailing women and their white headscarves and went out into the courtyard. For the next few hours, he paced back and forth under the mulberry tree, a cigarette in his hand. He had no idea what to do. At nightfall he put out his cigarette and walked through the crowd of women and went up to Cevriye Hanım. He found her sitting on the edge of the divan. She had a black headband lined with yellow on her forehead. Her eyes were blood-red from crying, as she stared into space. Leaning down, he whispered, ‘Shall I take over some food for Uncle Cevval?’
‘Take it over, if you wish,’ she said, in a voice that trembled like a leaf. ‘But don’t tell him about Kenan. Whatever you do, don’t tell him.’
So Besim and Ziya went together to Uncle Cevval’s house that night. In silence they walked past the sheepdog lying at the foot of the wall opposite; and under this dog’s gaze they stepped inside. As Uncle Cevval sat quietly on the divan, eating his food, he asked after Kenan a few times, as always.
And Besim said, ‘He’s feeling poorly.’
When he asked the same question the next day, he got the same answer.
But on the third day, Uncle Cevval refused to believe them, for some reason. He sat there as if someone very far away was answering his question, and suddenly he stopped listening. ‘That’s a pile of shit. He’s not poorly. You’re lying to me.’ As he spoke, two tears fell down his cheeks. And then Besim seemed close to tears, too. Bowing his head, he kept gulping.
And that was why, when they were outside again, Ziya patted him gently on the shoulder, and then on the head. As he did so, he felt Kenan’s hand reaching out through his to Besim’s father’s hand, all the way from Germany, and that unnerved him.
For months and months, he and Besim went back and forth to Uncle Cevval’s house, every day without fail.
When the weather grew warmer, and everything was green again, and the leaves returned to the vines and the trees, and the earth sang with morning glories, poppies, delphiniums, campion, ox-tongue, vetch and butterflies, that was when the brambles came alive with clacking grouse, while the village swooned to the scent of thyme and gum, and sunlight soared into the mountains’ deepest shadows. The world had opened itself to spring, of course, but Cevriye Hanım, who had yet to remove that headband from her forehead, was still lost inside the day that had taken away her son, and she wandered through her house like a woman possessed. And there were times when she would mumble, ‘Oh, Kâzım the Bellows Man, come back to the oily bullets.’ Each time he went to the house to fetch Uncle Cevval’s food, he would find her walking around like this, muttering curses. And each time he ached for her, though he had no idea what to say, what to do.
In the end, and without telling Cevriye Hanım, Ziya went to talk to Kâzım the Bellows Man. Besim took him over late one morning, pointing out a double door before backing away. And Ziya walked through the shade of the nettle tree, and when he reached the door he knocked a few times on its blackened boards.
‘Come on in, Ziya Bey,’ Kâzım called from inside.
Surprised that Kâzım had managed to see through these high walls, Ziya paused for a moment. Then, doing his best to hide his confusion and excitement, he opened the door and stepped inside. Kâzım was sitting in the left-hand corner of his courtyard on a high wooden bench. When he saw Ziya, he put out his cigarette and stood up, struggling to keep his balance, as if he were drunk or very ill. He staggered over to Ziya. His daughter, his two sons and his wife all came running into the courtyard: since Kenan’s death the whole family had been under attack and so they were always on guard.
‘Welcome,’ said Kâzım, offering his hand.
For a moment Ziya hesitated. He was not sure if he could extend a hand to the man who had caused Kenan’s death. Then he pulled himself together. With some reluctance, he extended his hand. But as they were shaking hands, Kâzım averted his eyes. He looked very pale; he had sunken cheeks. He looked taller than before and his voice was fogged, as if he was speaking from behind a curtain, or from very far away.