The Red-Haired Woman Read online

  DURING OUR EVENINGS in town, Master Mahmut and I always did things in a particular order. First we bought my master’s cigarettes from the bespectacled tobacconist or from the grocer whose TV was always on. Then we visited the ironmonger, whose shop stayed open late, or the carpenter from Samsun. Master Mahmut had befriended him and sometimes sat down for a smoke on the chair outside his shop. I’d take the opportunity to slip away for a quick run by the Station Square. When the carpenter’s shop was closed, Master Mahmut would say, “Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea,” and we’d sit at one of the empty tables outside the double doors of the Rumelian Coffeehouse, on the street that led to the Station Square. You could see the square from there, but not the building where the Red-Haired Woman lived. Every now and then I’d make an excuse to get up and walk until I could see the windows of the building, and when I saw that the lights were out, I would come back to the table.

  In that half hour we spent drinking tea outside the Rumelian Coffeehouse, Master Mahmut invariably offered a quick assessment of how far we’d dug that day and our progress generally. “That rock is very hard, but don’t worry, I’ll get the better of it,” he said on the first night. “An apprentice must learn to trust his master!” he said on the second night, when he saw me getting impatient. “It would be a lot easier if we could use dynamite the way we used to do before the military coup,” he said on the third night. “But the army has banned it.”

  He took me to the Sun Cinema one night, like a doting father; we watched the film sitting on the lower stretch of the cinema wall with all the children. When we got back to our tent, he said: “Call your mother tomorrow and tell her not to worry, I’ll find water in a week.”

  But the rock wouldn’t break.

  One evening when Master Mahmut didn’t accompany me to town, I went up to the theater tent to read the posters and the banners stretched across the entrance: THE REVENGE OF THE POET, ROSTAM AND SOHRAB, FARHAD THE MOUNTAIN-BREAKER. ADVENTURES NEVER SEEN ON TV. I was most curious about the parts that hadn’t been on television.

  Tickets cost about a fifth of the daily wages Master Mahmut paid me; there was no indication of a discount for kids and students. The biggest poster of all read EXTRA DISCOUNTS FOR SOLDIERS, SATURDAYS AND SUNDAYS, 13:30 AND 15:00.

  I knew that I wanted to go to the Theater of Morality Tales exactly because Master Mahmut had criticized it. Whenever we went down to Öngören, whether he was with me or not, I made it a point to pass by there, finding any excuse to catch a glimpse of the warm yellow tent.

  While Master Mahmut sat nursing his tea one evening, I walked over to the Station Square to take another look at the windows that seemed always to be dark. Later, as I wandered up and down Diners’ Lane to pass the time, I saw the young man I thought was the Red-Haired Woman’s brother emerging from the Liberation Restaurant. I started to follow him.

  When he reached the Station Square and slipped into the building whose windows I always stared at, my heart raced. Which floor would light up? Was the Red-Haired Woman in? When the lights on the top floor came on, my excitement grew unbearable. But right at that moment, the Red-Haired Woman’s younger brother emerged from the building again and started walking in my direction. This puzzled me; he couldn’t have been turning the lights on upstairs and walking out the door at the same time.

  He was coming straight at me. Perhaps he’d realized I’d been following him, or even that I was obsessed with his sister. Panicking, I ducked into the station building and sat on a bench in a corner. It was cool and quiet inside.

  But rather than the train station, the Red-Haired Woman’s brother made for the street where the Rumelian Coffeehouse was. If I followed him now, Master Mahmut, who was still drinking his tea, would see me, so instead I rushed up a parallel street and stood waiting behind a plane tree at the top. When the Red-Haired Woman’s brother ambled past me, lost in thought, I tagged along. We walked down the carpenter’s street, behind the Sun Cinema, and past the blacksmith’s horse cart. I saw the late-night grocery, the barbershop windows, and the post office I called my mother from, and I realized that in just two weeks of wandering Öngören, I’d already walked down every street in town.

  When I saw the Red-Haired Woman’s brother walk into the beaming yellow theater tent just outside town, I ran straight back to Master Mahmut.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I thought I’d give my mother a call.”

  “You miss her, then?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What did she say? Did you tell her that we’ll find water as soon as we’ve dealt with this rock, and you’ll be back home in a week at most?”

  “I did.”

  I would call my mother from the post office that stayed open until nine every evening, reversing the charges. The girl on the switchboard would ask for my mother’s name, and then she would say: “Mrs. Asuman Çelik? Cem Çelik is calling you from Öngören, do you accept the charges?”

  “I accept!” my mother’s eager voice would confirm.

  The presence of the girl on the switchboard and the surcharge for calling collect meant that neither of us could ever act quite naturally. We would run through the usual small talk before falling silent.

  The same tight-lipped distance that had crept into my relationship with my mother came between me and Master Mahmut on our way home that night. We gazed at the stars while walking up our hill and didn’t talk at all. It was as if a crime had been committed, and since the countless stars and crickets around us had all witnessed it, we lowered our gaze and kept quiet. The cemetery owl greeted us from the black cypress.

  Master Mahmut lit one last cigarette before retiring to the tent for the night. “Remember that fable you told last night about the prince?” he said by way of introduction. “I’ve been thinking about that today. I know a story like it about fate.”

  At first I didn’t realize he was talking about the Oedipus myth. But I said immediately: “Please tell me, Master Mahmut.”

  “A long time ago, there was a prince just like yours,” he began.

  The prince was his father the king’s favorite and firstborn. The king doted on this son and granted his every wish, throwing banquets and feasts in his honor. One day, during one of these feasts, the prince saw a man with a black beard and dark countenance standing by his father and recognized him as Azrael, the angel of death. The prince’s and Azrael’s gazes crossed, and they looked at each other in astonishment. After the feast, the worried prince told his father that Azrael had been among the guests, and that he was surely after him: the prince could tell from the angel’s mien.

  The king was afraid: “Go straight to Persia, don’t tell anyone, but hide in the palace in Tabriz,” he told his son. “The shah of Tabriz is our friend, these days; he won’t let anyone get you.”

  So the prince was sent off to Persia immediately. Afterward, the king threw another feast and invited the dark-faced Azrael again, as if nothing had happened.

  “My king, I see that your son isn’t here tonight,” said Azrael with a look of concern.

  “My son is in the prime of his youth,” said the king. “He will live a long life, God willing. Why do you ask about him?”

  “Three days ago, God commanded me to go to the palace of the shah of Tabriz in Persia and take your son, the prince!” said Azrael. “That’s why I was so surprised, and so pleased, when I saw him yesterday, right here in Istanbul. Your son saw the way I looked at him, and I think he knew what it meant.”

  Without further delay, Azrael left the palace.

  11

  AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, with the July sun scorching the backs of our necks, the rock Master Mahmut had been valiantly warring with finally cracked open ten meters down the well. We were ecstatic until we realized that things wouldn’t necessarily speed up; Ali and I were taking far too long hauling up the heavy fragments. In the afternoon, Master Mahmut finally called us to pull him up to the surface. “This will go faster if I man the windlass and one
of you goes down in there,” he said. “Now, who’s it going to be?”

  Neither Ali nor I said anything.

  “You do it, Ali,” said Master Mahmut.

  I was thrilled that Master Mahmut was sparing me. Ali stood with one foot in the bucket, and we slowly lowered him down on the windlass. Now it was the master and me working the windlass together. I fretted over whether my words and gestures were enough to convey just how grateful I was. I didn’t like how eager I was to please him. But I also knew that if I did as he said, we would find water faster, and that would make my life easier. At Ali’s signal we cranked the windlass in silence, listening to the sounds around us.

  The steady chirping of crickets seemed to come from one direction, and below that trill was a bass line, an indeterminate hum, the din of Istanbul thirty kilometers away. I hadn’t noticed it when we first arrived. It was overlaid with other sounds: the chatter of crows, swallows, and countless other birds I didn’t know, squawking plaintively; the chug-chug of the endless freight train making its way from the city to Europe; and soldiers droning their marching tune, “Oh the prairies, the prairies,” as they jogged, with full gear, in the heat.

  Every so often, our gazes crossed. What did Master Mahmut really think of me? I yearned for him to care for me and watch over me even more than he already did. But whenever our eyes met, I always looked away.

  Sometimes he would say, “Look, another airplane,” and we’d lift our faces up to the sky. The planes took off from Yeşilköy, and after climbing for about two minutes, they changed course somewhere over our heads. Down in the well, Ali would shout, “Pullll!” and we’d slowly turn the creaking windlass, lifting fragments of rock streaked with iron and nickel, which Master Mahmut had taught us to recognize.

  Every time the bucket came up, Master Mahmut warned Ali not to fill it up so much next time, to ignore the larger chunks for the time being, and always to make sure the load was securely fastened to the rope.

  After tipping in a few bucketfuls, it was my job to empty the handcart. Soon, I’d made a little heap of those oddly textured metallic rocks. Their color, hardness, and density were so different from the earth we’d extracted in the first week that they seemed to come from another world altogether.

  On Hayri Bey’s next visit, Master Mahmut explained to him that though we were still hampered by this hard layer, he had no intention of starting over elsewhere. There was water here for sure.

  Hayri Bey paid Master Mahmut by the meter. There would also be the lump sum due once water was found, as well as the customary gifts and tips. These terms had been cemented by tradition over hundreds of years of dealings between welldiggers and landowners. The digger did well to choose his spot carefully, for if he chose willfully or capriciously, he would only jeopardize the much-larger sum owed him on completion. In the case of a landowner who imperiously insisted,“Dig here,” choosing some spot with no hope of yielding water, the welldigger could still depend on being paid by the meter. But a master welldigger could raise that rate if obliged to go against his own better judgment. He could thereby indemnify himself against the danger of finding no water at all. Or he might at least insist on a sliding scale, increasing the rate past the ten-meter mark.

  Since the welldigger and the landowner had a common interest in finding water, it wasn’t unheard of for them to decide jointly to abandon a particular dig and start afresh elsewhere. A landowner might become fixated on a difficult spot where the odds were long (where the terrain was too rocky, for instance, or too sandy, or the soil too dry and pale); but even if he was dubious about a site, the welldigger had a financial incentive to continue digging and indulge the landowner. Hitting a layer of rock that would slow him down, he might demand to be paid by the day rather than by the meter. But sometimes the owner decided that an already excavated site was a lost cause. In those instances, the welldigger, trusting his intuition, might need to appeal for a few days’ forbearance. I could see that Master Mahmut was approaching that situation.

  When I went down to town with Master Mahmut the next evening, I made my way to Diners’ Lane and the Liberation Restaurant at eight-fifteen, a half hour earlier than I had seen the Red-Haired Woman’s brother leave there four days before. A partly drawn lace curtain covered the window, through which I couldn’t recognize anyone. So I opened the door and let my eyes roam around the near-empty room. Still, I saw no familiar faces amid the rakı fumes, no trace of that red hair.

  The next day revealed a layer of soft earth beneath the hard layer we’d been battling; but before we could hit our stride, Master Mahmut came upon a new vein of rock. At the Rumelian Coffeehouse that evening, we were apprehensive and quiet. After about an hour of that, I stood up without offering any excuse and headed toward the square. A row of almond trees along the sidewalk hindered my view of the windows from that side, so I went into Diners’ Lane instead. This time, looking through the gap in the lace curtains of the Liberation Restaurant, I saw the Red-Haired Woman, her brother, and her mother sitting with a group of friends at a table near the window.

  Gripped by nervous excitement, and without being fully aware of my own actions, I stepped inside. They were laughing and teasing one another and didn’t notice my entrance. There were rakı glasses and beer bottles all over their table. The Red-Haired Woman was smoking as she followed the conversation.

  A waiter came up to me and asked: “Are you looking for someone?”

  At that, everyone at the table turned and looked at me, their image reflected in the wide mirror on the wall beside them. The Red-Haired Woman and I shared a glance. She had that same tender expression on her face, though this time she seemed cheerful. She was observing me as I observed her. Perhaps she was mocking me. Her dainty hands flittered over the table.

  I had left the waiter’s question unanswered. “Soldiers aren’t allowed in here after six,” he said.

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “Under-eighteens aren’t allowed either. If you’re joining someone, go ahead, otherwise you’re going to have to leave.”

  “Let him in, we know him!” said the Red-Haired Woman to the waiter. No one else said a word. She was looking at me as if she knew everything about me, as if she’d known me for years. Her eyes seemed so kind and so amiable that I was overwhelmed with joy. I returned her gaze passionately. But now she looked away.

  I left without a word to the waiter and walked back toward the Rumelian Coffeehouse.

  “What took you so long?” said Master Mahmut. “Where do you go every night when you leave me here?”

  “This new rock is bothering me, too, Master Mahmut,” I said. “What if we can’t get past it?”

  “Have faith in your master. Do as I say and rest easy. I will find that water.”

  My father’s jokes and his sayings had always entertained me, made me think, and tested my wits. Yet I hadn’t always believed everything he said. Master Mahmut’s words, however, never failed to comfort and encourage me. For a time, I too believed that we would find that water.

  12

  THREE DAYS LATER, we still hadn’t gotten beyond the new layer of rock, nor had I had a chance to see the Red-Haired Woman again. I kept reliving the moment when she had defended me against the waiter’s attempt to throw me out of the Liberation Restaurant, remembering her affectionate expression, the pretty shape her lips took when she smiled her teasing smile. Her every move was graceful and irresistibly attractive. Master Mahmut and Ali took turns inside the well, slowly hacking away at the rock with the pickax. Progress was slow, and the heat agonizing. But hoisting up the rock fragments and carrying them to the handcart hardly seemed such a chore. All I needed was to think about the tenderness in the way the Red-Haired Woman had looked at me, the way she had declared that she recognized me, and I could carry on without complaint, confident that we’d find water soon.

  One night when Master Mahmut didn’t come to Öngören, I went all the way to the theater tent and queued up for a ticket. But a man I had ne
ver seen before who was manning the table that served as a box office said, “This isn’t for you!” and turned me away.

  At first I thought he might be referring to my age. But amid the general indifference that reigned in these small towns, it wasn’t unusual for even small children to sneak into the worst sort of establishment without anyone batting an eye. Besides, I was almost seventeen now, and everyone always said that I looked older. Perhaps what the man had meant to say was that a well-bred little gentleman from the big city was above the cheap laughs and sordid scenes of this production. Could the Red-Haired Woman have anything to do with the kind of vulgarities and coarse humor being staged for the amusement of simple soldiers?

  On my way back from town, I looked at the endless multitudes of stars and thought once more that I would be a writer. Master Mahmut was watching TV and waiting up for me. He asked me whether I’d gone to the theater tent again, and I told him I hadn’t. I knew he didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes and in the trace of disdain around the corners of his mouth.

  I sometimes saw that same scornful expression as we were cranking the windlass together all day in the heat, and at those moments I would think contritely that I must have done something wrong or let him down without realizing it. Maybe he thought I wasn’t pulling my weight at the crank, or maybe I hadn’t taken enough care hooking the bucket securely. The longer the search for water continued, the more often I’d see that accusing, disdainful, maybe even slightly suspicious look frozen on Master Mahmut’s face. It made me angry at myself but also at him.

  My father would never have paid so much attention to me. I would never have been able to spend the whole day with him as I did with Master Mahmut. But my father had never looked down on me. The only time I ever felt guilty on his account was when he was shut away in prison. So what was it about Master Mahmut that got under my skin? Why did I feel the constant need to be so obedient, so ingratiating? I would try to work up the courage to ask myself these questions when we were groaning at opposite ends of the windlass, but I couldn’t even manage that. Instead I’d look away and stew in my own rage.