The Undying Grass Read online

‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ he said. ‘He just shouts himself hoarse up there. He’s much too scared to come down. Look, I’ll shut his mouth if you like.’

  He picked up a clod from the ground and hurled it at the tree. The shouting broke off at once and all was still, as though the man up the tree had vanished into the blue. Every time after this that he attempted to raise a protest he was shut down with another clod.

  It was past midnight when the pilferers returned with bulging sacks. The rest of the villagers were awake, waiting in suspense, oblivious tonight of the hordes of skirring, jabbing mosquitoes. Only two men had not gone water-melon thieving. One was Tashbash and the other Okkesh Dagkurdu. Yet they could not sleep. Okkesh Dagkurdu had spread his prayer-mat on the edge of the field and was deep in his devotions. He knelt and bent over and stood up, again and again, making the namaz as though his life depended upon it. Ill-gotten goods! The Moslem religion expressly forbade him to even touch such a thing. Okkesh Dagkurdu would never taste a morsel of those water-melons, nor allow his wife and children to do so.

  As for Tashbash, hunched in a corner of his wattle-hut, he was turning the problem over in his mind. Should he swallow his pride and go too? Who ever heard of a holy man filching water-melons? A holy man over whose house magic lights gleamed in the night, unearthly lights that everyone from seven to seventy had seen, that the whole of the Taurus had heard about! And what if he were caught in the act? The holy man of lights, the companion of the Forty Holies, thieving in the Chukurova, and water-melons too! He would be branded, stigmatized, an object of scorn throughout the land. And even if he weren’t caught, how would he face his fellow-villagers after doing such a thing? True, they no longer looked on him as a holy man, but water-melon stealing would be the last straw.

  No, Tashbash, the holy man who walked in the night with seven poplar-tall balls of light attending him, clad in holy robes of green, Tashbash could not steal. But what about his wife and children, looking on while everyone had their share of the cool refreshing fruit? How could he stand by and watch this?

  He was sweating in a hell of indecision. Of all the terrible things that had befallen him since he had turned holy, this was by far the worst.

  A loud commotion broke out in the field and a babble of excited voices told him that the pilferers were back with their loot. At once everyone made for the water-melons and a noisy smacking of lips rose in the night.

  Okkesh Dagkurdu was still at his namaz prayers, bowing, genuflecting, rising again.

  Tashbash’s three children were wide awake, their ears pricked to the smacking, sucking sounds that came from the neighbouring hut.

  ‘Mmm!’ they heard Bald Osman say. ‘What would people do in this hot Chukurova land without water-melons? A thousand blessings on those who grow them. Mmmm! How light and fresh it makes a man feel! God bless Memidik for finding this huge big garden. Mmm, lovely, sweet as honey … Mmmm …’

  His wife must have said something to him because his ecstatic transports were cut short. When he spoke again it was in angry expostulation.

  ‘No, I won’t! Not even a morsel will I give them. Why should I? Did I carry these water-melons all this way to give them away? I’ve got children of my own to feed, haven’t I? My back’s sore and aching. Why doesn’t he go himself and get water-melons for his children, instead of posing as a saint and giving himself airs and throwing his children on the mercy of strangers? If he still thinks he’s a saint, then …’

  ‘Hush, please hush, Osman,’ his wife whispered. ‘What if he’s a saint still? Think of what he’d do to us …’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Osman growled. ‘What have such as he to do with sainthood? And anyway, did he ever deign to look at me after he’d turned saint? No one could get near him … Mmm, honey, pure honey! And cool too, makes one feel twice the man one is. Not a slice will I give to anyone, woman, not even to our beautiful Allah if he came along, let alone a saint. A whole day’s journey I carried them on my back …’

  Tashbash’s wife had been sitting at the door, motionless. Suddenly, she began to talk to herself. ‘We’ve got nobody, no kith, no kin. All alone we are. Abandoned.’ Her voice was low, but clearly meant for Tashbash’s ears. ‘Deprived of everything these children are, left at the mercy of strangers. They’ll sicken and die … Oh God, why did he have to be a saint? It’s destroyed our home, it’s killed us. What did we get out of his being a holy man, great God? Only misery and wretchedness. Oh, almighty Allah …’

  On and on she went until Tashbash could stand it no longer. ‘Damn all the holy saints,’ he burst out, goaded into madness. He dragged himself out of the hut. His wife had the sack ready. She held it out to him. Tashbash snatched it up and set off.

  Fighting down his shame and repugnance he came to the water-melon garden to be met by two loud rifle shots from up in the tree. Startled, he lost his balance and fell. He lay there listening to the keeper who was yelling at the top of his voice. Then with trembling legs he rose and began to gather the water-melons. There were some really big ones under the planetree. He ventured right up to the foot of the tree and filled his sack. Another shot rang out, deafening.

  ‘I wish he’d hit me,’ Tashbash said as he heaved the sack on to his back. ‘I’m sick of this life. I’m sick of being a saint, damn it. It’s brought me nothing but misery and shame. Oh, how I wish he’d hit me …’

  A ludicrous image rose before his eyes. He saw himself stretched out, a long corpse among the water-melons, and all the villagers, all the people of the Taurus and the Chukurova splitting their sides with laughter. Other corpses arouse pity, his would only provoke laughter. Think of it, the saint who died pilfering water-melons! Tashbash burst out laughing as he staggered out of the field with the heavy sack on his back. Up in the planetree the keeper was still yelling like a madman.

  He did not stop until he came to the river, but the effort was too much. He put down the sack and leaned against it and his strength drained from his body as his sweat cooled. He knew he must move quickly and be back before light dawned. No one must see him. There was no knowing what those shameless villagers might do to him. Straining every nerve, he managed to lift the sack up again. His legs buckled under him, but he kept on, and after a while he began to sweat again. It was good to sweat, it made him feel less weak.

  Twice his legs failed him and he tumbled down with the water-melons scattering all over the place. Each time he picked them up and plodded on, fainting with fatigue. But now he could not bear the weight of the sack any longer. He stopped and hid three of the water-melons under a bush.

  ‘This calamity will hound me to my dying day,’ he thought suddenly as he walked on along the river. ‘Insulted, scorned, humiliated, every new day will bring a new death to me. So why not end it all now? Why not throw myself into the river here …’

  The thought was so soothing, he so yearned for peace that he paused and looked at the river. So dark and calm it flowed … How easy it would be to walk in and sink into its depths … Everything about him was wiped out in a frightening blackness and he heard the loud beat of his heart pounding tearingly at his chest. He shuddered and the moment passed. The blackness disappeared and he walked on.

  In the east the mountain tops were lightening. He hid another water-melon under a shrub and pressed on.

  The sun dawned. It flamed like the mouth of an oven. Tashbash lifted his head and saw the long row of cotton pickers not twenty paces away from him. They had seen him too.

  Shirtless gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Just look at the saint,’ he yelled. ‘Stealing water-melons just like you and me. Except that we do it in the dark and he does it in broad daylight! Well, saint, a fine state you’re in, quite done for in fact … Hey, people, now who’s our current saint? Eh?’

  A wild roar of laughter rocked the crowd. Shirtless was gratified. ‘Come on now, folks, say it. Who, who?’

  There was an expectant pause.

  ‘It’s this man who goes stealing water-melons in broad da
ylight!’

  Waves of laughter broke out again.

  Tashbash stood rooted to the spot, blinking like an owl in the light of the sun, His sack was still on his back. He looked to right and left, but he saw nothing.

  ‘Who is it? Who has holy lights winking over his house every night of the year?’

  Their laughing response came swiftly in a roar. ‘The watermelon thief! The daytime water-melon thief!’

  ‘And who is it who’s got those seven balls of light always after him?’

  ‘The water-melon thief! The daytime water-melon thief!’

  Suddenly Tashbash’s legs folded up and he sank to the ground. The sack fell open and the water-melons rolled all about him.

  At that moment Sefer flashed a message to Gooey Apti who shot out at once from the row of cotton pickers and administered Tashbash a resounding kick in the ribs.

  ‘There! Now where’s your power? Where are your miracles? Show us your magic then, saint! Why don’t you break this foot that’s kicking you? Why don’t you turn it to wood? Who ever heard of a thief like you becoming a saint? A lowdown worthless wretch, a rapist …’ He kicked Tashbash again and laughed. ‘You’ve no pride, no honour, nothing. What of this village’s good name if you’d been caught? The famous saint of Yalak only a common thief! What would people say of us all over the Chukurova? Tell me that, you mucky saint!’

  The villagers were still laughing, but Hassan rushed out of the crowd, grabbed a stone and flung it at Gooey Apti. It hit him right on the head. Blood running down his face, Gooey turned on Hassan and dealt him a kick in the belly. The boy fell, clinging to his leg. Gooey shook him off and fell upon Tashbash again.

  ‘Come on, you shitty saint! Show us your miracles! Look, I shit in your mouth.’ He put his backside on Tashbash’s face. ‘Like this, right into your holy mouth. Now strike me, do your worst, you humbug saint …’

  The laughter had died out now. A murmur of pity rippled through the crowd. Tashbash’s wife was weeping silently, his children sobbing and howling.

  ‘That’s going too far!’ Shirtless shouted. ‘The son of a bitch has killed him.’

  ‘He’s killed him …’

  ‘After all, who doesn’t go stealing water-melons?’

  ‘Everyone does it …’

  The murmuring grew into a growl. Gooey Apti straightened up, startled. At his feet Tashbash lay still and lifeless. The crowd began to close in.

  ‘It’s a shame!’

  ‘Doing this to a poor sick man …’

  ‘The brute!’

  ‘Ah, who’d have thought Tashbash would come to this!’

  Sefer hurried up and grabbed Gooey by the arm. ‘You vicious dog, you!’ he shouted as he gave him a push. ‘You’ve killed the man, killed him … Who knows, he may still be a saint, and saints can bide their time. They may not work their miracles at once.’ Deftly, he propelled Gooey away from the crowd. ‘Run, damn you,’ he urged in a low voice. ‘Or they’ll tear you to pieces …’

  Gooey took to his heels and Muhtar Sefer turned back and raised Tashbash from the ground.

  ‘Eh, my saintly Tashbash,’ he said vindictively as he supported him back to his hut, ‘didn’t I tell you last winter what would happen? Didn’t I tell you that there’s no trusting these villagers? When it suits them they put a crown on your head and proclaim you a saint, a prophet. And when they don’t need you any more, then they send you packing with a kick in your arse, just like this. Yes, my holy brother, as you see! And this is only the beginning …’

  A few women helped Tashbash into his hut and put him to bed. Hassan was holding his hand and weeping uncontrollably.

  36

  Memidik is very much affected by Tashbash’s humiliation, and somewhat cowed too. His sense of human dignity is shaken, something breaks inside him at the sight of Tashbash being beaten. But he knows Sefer is behind it all. So he goes to Tashbash, asks for his blessing and makes a wish.

  All about the low narrow reed- and brush-thatched wattle-huts the ground was strewn with water-melon rinds. Bees in swarms buzzed over the well-gnawed rinds, hornets, honey-bees, yellow-jackets, settling and rising in a scintillating cloud. The hornets were very large, bright-winged and red, and glided down slowly over the rinds like so many landing planes.

  The sun had baked the earth until it was like red-hot iron and the labourers had all retreated into the shade. Halfheartedly, bone-weary, they stripped the cotton bolls they had picked that morning. The children were covered with suppurating sores from mosquito bites and the older people were not much better. Everyone scratched away as though seized with a mangy itch. They stripped a cotton boll or two, then scratched away again like mad. Their backs ached as though broken and no one could sit straight on the ground any more. Their bones felt pounded to pulp in a mortar and, worst of all, they suffered from finger-tip fear, when the skin of the fingers is worn so thin through picking that the capillaries are almost laid bare and to touch anything makes a man want to vomit.

  Long Ali was on the mend now, but he had this finger-tip fear. Only one person knew the remedy for this. That was his mother and she wasn’t here, curse his luck. Still he kept on and stripped more cotton than anyone else.

  A close, hazy heat had settled over the plain, growing more oppressive, more stifling every minute. Long Ali glanced at the sky. This heat spelled rain again, that was sure.

  ‘Oh, almighty, beautiful Allah,’ he prayed, ‘please don’t let it rain, please! At least not till we’ve finished picking this field.’

  He hesitated, about to say for the love of our Lord Tashbash, but thought better of it after all that had happened. He had always been proud of his friend’s becoming a holy man and, whether he believed in it or not, he had never failed in the past to invoke his name in his prayers. It was Hassan who kept him hourly informed of the events outside, for he was still tied to his bed.

  ‘Father,’ the boy said, ‘it’s my Uncle Tashbash himself, I swear it. Not his copy or double or anything. I’ve talked to him and he knows everything, how we caught starlings together and ate yalabuk … Everything … How would he know all this if he wasn’t my Uncle Tashbash? And then he’s so good and kind, the best man in the world. When he talks it makes you feel you have wings and could fly for joy. Who else but my Uncle Tashbash could make you feel like that? And then he knew all that would happen to him from the beginning. He said so, you remember?’

  ‘Did he tell you he was a saint?’

  ‘Of course he did! He said there wasn’t another saint to match him in all the world …’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He said Sefer was egging Gooey Apti on and giving him money too so that he should beat him. He said Gooey would kill him perhaps for he was tired and sick now. Then he said, your father’s ill too. And he laughed. Let them beat us, he said, we’ll see …’

  ‘Let them beat us, eh?’ Ali ground his teeth. ‘Ah, we’ll see who laughs last! And then?’

  ‘The villagers clung to me, he said, when they were in trouble. But now they’ve found this good cotton to pick and they’re not afraid of Adil Effendi any more or of going hungry …’

  ‘Yes, yes? Go on.’

  ‘So now, he said, they’re ashamed to have believed in me, to have worshipped me. They think I was a saint because they made me one, that I wasn’t real. But they’re wrong. I am a saint now and they don’t know it.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He said they’re so ashamed that they can’t even bear the sight of me. Either they’ll believe in me again as in the past or they’ll do away with me. If all goes well with the cotton picking …’

  ‘That Uncle Tashbash of yours doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ Ali interrupted him. ‘Nobody can take away Tashbash’s sainthood now. Everyone knows he’s a saint. But that’s your Uncle Tashbash you were talking to, not the Lord Tashbash. He has gone away from us to live for ever and for ever among the Forty Holies … Well, what else?’

&nbs
p; ‘He’s very sick … He pisses blood. He’s all yellow and shaky.’

  ‘You tell him to come to me one night without anyone seeing.’

  The heat was suffocating and the haze so dense it was impossible to see anything more than a couple of yards away. The grass was wet with vapour. Trees, plants, the cotton, people, birds, bees, insects, everything, even the dry stubble was viscid with sweat. The whole earth exuded beads of perspiration like a water-filled clay jug. A pungent, acrid, sour odour of sweat spread above the wattle-huts into the sky.

  A scream rose from one of the wattle-huts at the end of the field. It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Bald Osman’s wife,’ someone said. ‘Her boy’s got the fever.’

  Women and children were crowding in and around Bald Osman’s hut. The child, a boy of seven, was huddled up, his legs drawn to his belly. He trembled like a leaf in the wind and his teeth chattered.

  ‘You’ve got to get a saddle and put him inside it,’ one woman said. ‘That helps. He’s got blackwater fever.’

  A saddle was found at once and the child laid in it.

  ‘A doctor!’ Bald Osman moaned. ‘Oh for a doctor!’

  If a doctor were found the child would be saved. It had happened once a few years ago when they were picking cotton in a place called Karshiyaka, quite near Adana. Fourteen children had been seized with trembling fits just like this one. There had been a doctor there who had given the children injections and they had been saved. The doctor had called the sickness blackwater fever.

  Now the villagers could do nothing but wait around the hut, helpless, sweating under the hot sun, while the child lay there in the saddle trembling all the time. Towards noon his body contracted in a quivering spasm. He trembled a little more, then he was rigid and did not move again. He was dead.

  The women drew up in a circle and with shrill wails began the keening. They washed the child and wrapped him up in a blanket. An imam was summoned from a nearby village and the funeral ceremony was held under the beating afternoon sun. The child was buried on a small hillock on the bank of the river. Bald Osman made a border of white pebbles around the tiny grave. Yalak village had buried many of its dead like this in the Chukurova. They were used to it and it did not affect them unduly.