The Few, Page 3

  When Ebcet cried “Allah” all the people waiting to kiss the Gazi’s feet glared at him with blind jealousy, forgetting entirely about the person that was about to step out of the just-opened door. Sheik Gazi was slow to get out of the car; he was eighty-one, after all. His feet came first and Ebcet caught them before they could touch the ground and kissed them, though he couldn’t see exactly what he was kissing, the end of his robe or the leather of his shoe. Then he felt a hand on his head. Sheik Gazi’s hand. Ecbet was still kneeling. The old man supported himself against his head like a walking stick and slowly got out of the car. But Ebcet’s mission wasn’t done. He stood up and took hold of Sheik Gazi’s hands, kissing them before touching them to his forehead. Both hands. Tears ran from his eyes. Once more God had smiled on this poor servant! He knew that everyone was watching him. They all wished they were him. The whole Aleyzam tribe, the whole Hikmet Tariqat, everyone. Two thin hands took his cheeks and raised his head. Then he looked into Sheik Gazi’s eyes. Time stopped for a few seconds. Then the same hands lowered Ebcet’s head and Sheik Gazi touched his lips on the forehead before him. Roses bloomed on Ebcet’s brow.

  Gido Agha, sixty-one, was the head of the Aleyzam tribe. He controlled a large share of the diesel oil the tribe smuggled over the Iranian border. He didn’t trust Sheik Gazi, an old, senile man that he nevertheless had to tolerate. The Aleyzam tribe was a flock of men that had worked as government-sponsored militia for five years before flipping sides and becoming terrorists fighting against the government, choosing sides according to the political climate at the time. Gido Agha was their shepherd. He lived in a villa the size of ten houses. Like every other house in the region, it had a room reserved for honored guests. Sheik Gazi had already dozed off in the guest room, still in his white robe and turban. He was very old. He hardly spoke, or listened for that matter. His function was that of a flag; he was placed somewhere prominent for these village visits, and used as a focal point for people to gather around. While Sheik Gazi billowed in the wind, his son Hıdır Arif handled the affairs of the Tariqat.

  Tayyar was the only one in the room who was standing. He was a judo master, made more of muscle and sinew than flesh and bones. He stood behind Sheik Gazi, his eyes recording everything like two cameras; the intensity of his gaze suggested he was trying to detect dust particles in the air. He was six foot four and weighed well over two hundred pounds. His arms bulged out from under his robe but his forehead was too narrow for his face. He had a mangled nose and fingers thick like the barrel of a gun. He kept his hands clasped under his sash. He was Sheik Gazi’s adopted son and he’d been with him since he was seven. He was Palestinian. His mother, father, and four sisters were killed by Israeli bombs, and when three million Palestinians fled in the aftermath of the Six-Day War, members of the Hikmet Tariqat helped him cross the border into Turkey and introduced him to Sheik Gazi. His dark, seven-year-old eyes had deeply affected the Sheik, who said, “Cry as much as you want my child, for you will never weep again.”

  From that day on he was sheltered in the shadow of Sheik Gazi, growing up under his wing. He became the eyes, mouth, and fist of his spiritual father, visiting every city and town in the country, whispering the words of Sheik Gazi into the ears of members of the Hikmet Tariqat, communicating his orders and his demands. As the years passed, Sheik Gazi became more and more withdrawn and Tayyar became the old man’s sole messenger, traveling the world to never cry again.

  The Hikmet Tariqat differed from other religious sects in the region because their sheik was homeless. Hikmet Tariqat members did not have a particular medrese, nor did they frequent any dervish lodge. Homeless Sheik Gazi was born a refugee to the world and he would die one, too. He didn’t own a home and he wasn’t an officially registered resident of anywhere. He moved from one disciple’s home to another every three months, living on whatever was offered him. Homelessness was the founding principle of the Hikmet Tariqat. In their eyes, borders between states were fictitious. They didn’t believe in nation states. There were only believers and non-believers. Their members were scattered all over the world. Homeless. Although being homeless didn’t mean one couldn’t own property; there were not a few title deeds in Hıdır Arif’s name. Hıdır Arif lived in Istanbul but also spent time in London, waiting for his father to die. Most of the year he was in Istanbul, in a neighborhood called Çemendağ. He owned 221 of the 226 buildings in the neighborhood. The remaining five had been built illegally without municipal permission. His plan was to apply pressure on the municipality to have those five buildings demolished as soon as possible. There was also a mosque in Çemendağ. But Hıdır Arif did his best to ensure that the mosque couldn’t reach the Hikmet Tariqat members.

  But more than anything else Hıdır Arif was a businessman. A businessman who owned a supermarket chain in London and livestock somewhere near Hamburg, and who managed construction projects in Istanbul. He was busy. And it made him angry when he had to leave everything at the drop of a hat to parade his father through villages like a circus animal. But the believers couldn’t rest easy until they’d seen their flag. When they were restless they called Hıdır Arif to complain: “We paid the last installment, but our houses still aren’t finished.” They complained all the time. Endless complaints. Men like Ebcet, now kneeling before him, never stopped bothering him. What did the fool want from him now?

  “I have a girl, my niece. She’s eleven. An appropriate …”

  “You have a photograph?” asked Hıdır Arif.

  Lost in his own troubles, Ebcet wasn’t listening and didn’t understand.

  “What?”

  Hıdır Arif sighed and repeated his question; a businessman needed patience.

  “Take her photograph and send it to me. We’ll look into it.”

  “May God bless you, may God grant …”

  “Alright then,” said Hıdır Arif and he cast his eyes about the room. He noticed the wrinkles on Gido Agha’s face, like knife wounds, and then the saliva dribbling from his father’s lips. He watched the men genuflecting before him, whispering into each other’s ears. Hıdır Arif was forty-four. He had three wives and eight children. He’d graduated from Princeton with a degree in economics. He left for the United States sixteen years ago, swearing never to return to Turkey. Why would he? To sit beside a good-for-nothing like Gido Agha in a cesspool of a town like Girinti? This wasn’t for him—villages and villagers. I’ll transfer everything to London, and I’ll never come back, he thought. Then he thought of the view of the Thames from his office in London and he smiled. Gido noticed it and gave Hıdır Arif a tough but friendly tap on the knee.

  Squatting on the ground with her face in her hands, Fehime bit her lips as she watched Derdâ being photographed. She was tired of feeling jealous. She’d have to get used to watching; she was condemned to do it all her life. She’d watch until she lost her mind, her insanity rising until she died. Like all the other village girls, Fehime was nothing but a pair of eyes, eyes that opened at birth and closed at death. Her mouth, her voice, served no purpose at all.

  Checking that no one else was around, Ebcet said, “Uncover your head.” Derdâ undid her black headscarf and left it around her neck. A long black braid of hair slid down her back like an exotic snake. Ebcet had bought his camera from the only white goods shop in town and they had warned him: “There has to be enough light—it won’t work without light.” Now under a dull sky, Ebcet did his best to position Derdâ’s face toward the light. At the same time, he thought of how her buyer would reimburse him for the camera. Not only would he pay him for the machine, but he’d have to be the one to shoulder the sin of making an eleven-year-old girl uncover her head. And of course that would mean more money.

  It was the first time Derdâ had had her picture taken and she didn’t know if she should smile or not. But she wanted to so in the end she couldn’t help it and smiled. Ebcet couldn’t help himself and slapped her.

  “You’ll make me a sinner! Now go inside!” Fehim
e couldn’t help but laugh and he barked, “You, too!”

  The girls quickly disappeared behind the door. Ebcet mumbled to himself as he turned the camera over in his hands: “How do you turn this damn thing off?”

  The time when taking a picture was considered sinful was long gone.

  A month had passed since the pictures were taken. It was spring. The snow was melting, and patches of the earth were emerging over the countryside.

  “Don’t cry anymore. Don’t you see that I’m sick, too? But you don’t even care. Here, have some soup. Come on now,” Saniye said.

  Saniye set the bowl down beside Derdâ and left the room. She found Mübarek burying potatoes in the ash at the bottom of the stove and said, “The girl’s sick as well.”

  “She’ll get used to it.”

  “She’s so thin, she’ll die. She won’t eat.”

  “She’ll eat, she’ll have to. There’s not much time left anyway. They’ll be here next week. And then you’ll find peace …” She stopped herself before she said, “and so will I.”

  The next morning Derdâ woke up and figured it must be the day she was returning to school; she woke up early, got her things together, then waited an hour for her mother to open her eyes. In that hour, she thought about the girl from Yatırca, about her teacher Yeşim, and only when she thought of how Nazenin had waved to her as she left could she drive away the knot in her throat. But her reverie abruptly came to an end when Saniye woke up and saw her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she snapped.

  “Aren’t we going back to school?”

  She felt like she’d died and come back to life when Saniye said, “You won’t be going to school anymore.”

  Saniye stood up. “Let me have a look at you.” She went into Derdâ’s room and saw that the soup bowl was empty. She was pleased. The little girl wasn’t going to starve herself to death. But then she noticed a stain on the wall. A dripping stain. She’d thrown her soup at the wall. She slapped Derdâ with the back of her hand.

  From then on, the girl was kept prisoner. She lived deep in the corner of the room. An iron ring circled her ankle and was attached to an iron chain. The chain was fastened to a ring nailed into the wall. Four times Derdâ had tried to escape. But they’d always found her. Everyone was tired of her causing trouble so they chained her to the wall. She’d heard she was going to be married off. So there was something else for Fehime to be jealous about. Fehime bit her lips even more when she learned where Derdâ would be going after she got married. Not that she knew where such a place even was. She only knew it was somewhere far from here.

  Saniye felt remorseful for striking her. She knew she only had a week to train Derdâ, and they’d send her back if she was violent toward her husband. She knelt down beside the little girl and hugged her.

  “Don’t be scared, my child. I’m only thinking of you. I’m doing all of this for your own well-being. Look at the state we are in. How can I look after you? I also married when I was your age.”

  But she was lying—she got married at thirteen.

  “Mother,” Derdâ said. “I’ll never see you again.”

  “That’s not true. I’ll come visit you. You’ll go first and then I’ll come to see you later.”

  She was telling the truth. At least she believed she was, because she had the shortest lasting but most infectious human malady: hope.

  They cried together and this helped. Derdâ didn’t throw her second bowl of soup against the wall. She even ate some bread. Mübarek was right. The girl was adjusting. Like everyone else in the world who kept on living even though they knew all too well that one day they would die.

  The following day Derdâ’s chain was removed and the mark around her ankle rubbed with balm. Two days later Mübarek took her measurements and sewed a dress from some dark red fabric that Ebcet had brought. Fehime went quiet and never spoke again. Three days later Derdâ’s braid was undone and her hair was washed and combed. Four days later Derdâ burned her notebooks and books in the stove. Five days later Ebcet was arrested by the gendarme for selling contraband cigarettes. Six days later he was set free. Seven days later, late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

  A young man and an old man in religious robes entered the house. The old man’s beard reached down to his chest, but the young man’s beard was only a little below his chin. Ebcet kissed the old man’s hand and the two men exchanged greetings. The young man remained silent. “He doesn’t speak,” said the old man. They sat around the low wooden table. Mübarek and Saniye served soup. They waited for the women to leave the room before they began to speak.

  The old man’s name was Ubeydullah and the young man’s name was Bezir and he was his son. Ubeydullah spoke and Ebcet and Bezir listened.

  “We cannot stay long, Ebcet. With God’s permission, we will take the girl and go to Istanbul. The marriage will take place there. We’ll return after we handle some business there. No one takes proper care of our shops while we’re away. We need to get there as soon as possible.”

  Was it time to call Derdâ in and show her to them? How much would they pay? Ebcet nodded his head as he calculated possible figures. But first he had to exchange social graces.

  “How is the High Sheik? Did you have a chance to see him? Is he in good health?”

  “He is in fine health. You do have an ID card for the girl, correct?”

  The very words were a comfort to Ebcet. Ubeydullah was obviously as eager to finish the job as he was.

  “Yes. Everything is in order as agreed. Shall I call her in?”

  “No,” Ubeydullah said. He took an envelope from beneath his robe and handed it to Ebcet. “First, take this.”

  Ebcet took the envelope. What was he supposed to do? Should he count the money then and there? It was his first time selling a girl. His own two daughters had committed suicide seven years ago. On the same day. The very same morning. Side by side. With the very same rifle. First one, then the other. And Fehime’s turn had not yet come. Seeing him hesitate, Ubeydullah laughed.

  “Come on, open it. Open it and see.”

  How easy it was to do business with such a worldly man! Ebcet opened the envelope and counted the banknotes one by one, shifting them from one hand to the other. His breathing quickened as he counted. It was all there in his hand. The cost of the camera, the atonement for the sin he had committed, Saniye’s share, his own share. He didn’t know what to say. He began to mutter, “May God make it so …”

  When Ubeydullah stood up, Bezir followed his father.

  “We should be going. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Before Ubeydullah could finish, Ebcet turned toward the inner room and shouted, “Mübarek! Bring her in.”

  The door swung open and Derdâ stepped into the room. Mübarek held her by her shoulders and pushed her forward. Only Derdâ’s eyes were visible. First she looked at Ubeydullah. She felt fear well up inside her. Then she saw Bezir. And the fear redoubled. She turned her head and held her hand out to her mother now standing beside her. Saniye took her hand and then let it go. Derdâ had a few things packed in her school bag: her dark red dress, underwear, and a pair of shoes. Bezir took the bag from Saniye and followed Ubeydullah to the door. He didn’t look at Derdâ once. Mübarek shoved Derdâ forward and then turned and looked at Saniye. They were both crying, but tears couldn’t change anything now.

  Bezir opened the back door of the car and stood waiting for Ubeydullah to get Derdâ’s ID card from Ebcet. Derdâ took a few steps forward then collapsed an arm’s distance from the car. She was wearing a black chador, so no one could see the stain.

  It was eleven-year-old Derdâ’s first period. The bleeding was so heavy her blood pressure plummeted and she fainted. Ubeydullah and Bezir went to stay with a relative in Girinti and would return two days later. Saniye washed Derdâ and put her to sleep. Ebcet was preparing an apology for Ubeydullah, he worried that the old man would be displeased by this unfortunate incident an
d might abandon the agreement. But the old man said, “It is auspicious,” and he felt relieved, tucking the envelope full of money under his pillow.

  The second visit was even shorter than the first. They came, got Derdâ, and left. Now her blood was flowing. She had nothing else to shed. Not even a tear fell from her eyes as she looked at her mother for the last time.

  It took them fifteen hours to reach Istanbul and another hour to reach Çemendağ. They stopped three times on the way but Derdâ never once ate. They didn’t say more than sixteen words in the sixteen hours on the road. Derdâ didn’t sleep at all. She looked out the window and fiddled with her black gloves. She took them off and put them on again and again without the men in the front noticing. She made a fist and put her glove on and flapped the empty fingers around. Finally, the door opened and she got out of the car.

  They went up to the fourth floor of an apartment building. It was Derdâ’s first ride in an elevator. Two doors on the fourth floor were already cracked open when they arrived, a collection of heads peering out from behind each door. Women kissed Ubeydullah’s hand and took Bezir’s bags before disappearing inside. Men and women filed into separate apartments. For a moment, it seemed that everyone had forgotten Derdâ standing by the elevator, but the woman saw her and pulled her inside. Derdâ entered the women’s apartment.

  The women surrounded her and took off her chador to examine her. Derdâ felt totally numb. One of them asked her name but Derdâ told her it was none of her business and they all laughed at her. But the woman got her revenge when Derdâ went to the bathroom. She followed her in and slapped Derdâ across the face. Derdâ tried to lock the bathroom door, but saw there wasn’t a key in the keyhole to turn. Doors only locked from the outside in the Hikmet Tariqat. The master of the house was the sole keeper of the keys.

  They had been traveling all night so Ubeydullah and Bezir slept until noon prayer. Derdâ wasn’t tired but the women insisted. They showed her to a bedroom and closed the door behind her, and Derdâ closed her eyes. She opened them when she heard the key turning in the door. She looked up at the ceiling. She could make out fractions in the patterns in the cement. She tried to add and subtract them. When she started thinking about her mother she shut her eyes immediately. Derdâ gave up on her mother in that bed.