The Birds Have Also Gone Page 7

  Long years ago, when Mahmut used to go selling birds for “fly and be free”, people would come in droves to cast the birds into the air and the whole world would be suffused with joy and love, with the warmth of human beings and of birds. The sky would be overspread with birds, resounding with their cries like a song of gladness. Mahmut always avoided selling his birds to children, for they did not buy them to set them free. Usually, they would tie a string to the bird’s feet and play with it, or they would imprison it in a cage that was much too narrow, or even thrust the bird under their shirt where it would stifle to death. Many would be sincerely grieved to have caused the bird’s death while they had been playing, forgetting all about it. Others would not be affected at all, or would pretend not to be; they would throw away the dead bird with indifference, as though it were only a stone. Mahmut could recognise both sorts at a glance, from their eyes perhaps, or the way they gestured with their hands, how I don’t quite know. A boy who had been distressed at the death of his bird would come and buy another one, which he would then cradle in the palms of his hands, lovingly, cautiously, as though terrified at the idea of hurting it in any way. The other kind would stand apart, glaring angrily at Mahmut and at the birds in their cages.

  Well, now, at his age, tomorrow or the day after, Mahmut is going to sell birds again in Istanbul town, he will look for men of good will, still able to feel pity and love. And he will find them. There will always be men of good will, Mahmut claims. He will see if charity and compassion are dead or not. He will cast Istanbul’s fortune.

  In his youth, a long time ago, Mahmut had sold as many as six hundred birds in a few hours and this in front of only one single mosque, the Valide Sultan, and he had watched them soar into the sky, drowning Eminönü Square and indeed the whole city in a glow of joy and love. The happiness of freeing a bird, of saving a living creature … Mahmut can never forget the childish pleasure, the bliss, the beauty on the faces of those who had just let loose a bird and, their hands empty now, followed it as it winged away until it had quite vanished from sight. He had seen old men, their backs bent with age, clap their hands and even skip with joy like children as the birds flew out of their hands. And shout with laughter too, jubilant, unrestrained. But, today, where is the man in this town who can still laugh like that, with all his heart, at the sight of something that brings beauty, and goodness, and cheer?

  “Stop Mahmut, you’re talking like them now …”

  Well, all right, there are some people still like that, of course there are, it’s impossible they should all have disappeared. In all this large humanity … The human being is made of layer upon layer, and the best of him, the most precious gem, is there, in the innermost layer. As you strip the layers off, one by one, he becomes purer, lovelier … What is ugly is mankind’s outer shell. A man worthy of the name will always be trying to cast off his own shells and also the shells of all humankind. And as they come off, the world grows brighter. Brighter and brighter …

  “Stop, Mahmut, stop.”

  “I won’t stop,” he shouted. “I won’t hear a word against the human race. Never! Somewhere it’s still there, the light, shining … I know it. And if we cannot find it, it’s because we’re not strong enough. If we cannot see that bright light, it’s because our eyes are blinded by the darkness inside us.”

  At the very last moment, when you are convinced that all hope is lost, humanity will suddenly shine forth, and hope will blossom like a flower.

  Long before the foundation of Istanbul, already these tiny little birds, coming from who knows where to leave again for a place unknown, would descend in a rain of many colours over the dried thistles of Florya Plain. They would devour the seeds and grow strong, then take wing, driven by the rough December winds, and fly off to another part of the world, to new fields of thistles. But maybe they nested in some far-off thistleless plain where no bird flies or caravan passes. And on that vast plain the females laid their eggs among tall grasses in the millions of nests they had built, and sat on them, warm and snug, in the supreme bliss of motherhood … And the males carried minute seeds to their brooding mates. And the millions of hatched chicks, tiny, each one no bigger than a beetle, would open their beaks wide and clamour for food. Maybe the plain would be covered with flowers. Maybe the fledglings thrived, not on thistle seeds, but on the delicate seeds of flowers.

  Maybe at the time the city was founded all this area where the wood is now, and Yeşilköy, Şenlikköy, Bakirköy, Florya Plain, was just one vast stretch of thistles which the millions of birds born on that far-off plain would overrun in a shower of colour and light. But perhaps they had been born on some thistly mountainside, these birds, or in some forest … Perhaps …

  Children, from Oriental Rome onwards, through Byzantium and the Ottoman Empire, would set snares and baits to capture these birds, and ever since that time the birds would be there, waiting to be freed in front of churches, mosques and synagogues. This had become a tradition with the people of the city, and so had the calling of the fowler.

  With the passing of years, the thistle fields diminished gradually. New settlements sprang up and expanded, Şenlikköy, Yeşilköy, Ambarli, Cennetmahallesi, Telsizler, Menekşe, Florya, Basinköy. Ugly concrete apartment blocks began to crowd the lovely dale of Florya where violets used to grow. And now only this small tract of land between Menekşe and Basinköy, between the sea and the wood, is left for the birds. Here, there are still some thistle shrubs, and this is where the birds return every year for their beloved thistle seeds. But last year, the owner of the land parcelled it out and sold the plots to new-rich buyers for as much as five hundred liras per square metre. A new gold rush is on in Istanbul, the rush to buy building sites. For a mere span of land, these greedy new-rich monsters will gouge each other’s eyes out. They will kill and rape and cut throats … For a mere span of land! And next year, in place of this copper-hued thistle field, there will be a mass of concrete, villas, apartment buildings, so ugly that the mere sight of them will be nauseating. And in the new streets, alienated creatures who live only for lucre and ostentation will be strutting about, showing off to each other. They will own motorcars that they will drive at a hundred and fifty, two hundred kilometres an hour along the London Highway to get here, hitting and killing people on the way …

  And maybe the birds, impelled by some ancient, deep-rooted instinct, will come again to the sky over where that lofty plane tree is now but which will have been cut down by then. They will pause a moment, searching for something, vaguely remembering. They will flutter in little groups over the concrete agglomeration of houses, and finding nowhere to alight will take themselves off like some remote sorrow.

  “Don’t, Mahmut! Stop, please stop.”

  “We must cast Istanbul’s fortune once more. One last time …”

  11

  That day it rained till nightfall. At one time, the weather seemed to be clearing up and the sea in front of Ambarli was like glazed frost. Then a dark cloud spread over the sky, covering everything, and it started to rain again.

  Early next morning, I awoke to a pure and cloudless sky, washed clean and gleaming like blue velvet. A large airliner glided over the Islands and landed at Yeşilköy Airport with a great roar, leaving the sky empty again, as empty as if no plane had ever flown in it up to now, not a bird even, a perfectly silent, very distant, very wide blue sky that would remain undisturbed till the end of time.

  Though I was anxious to know how things had turned out with the boys, I hesitated to go to them for fear they might think I was coming about the falcon, or to get back the money. It was days, too, since I’d seen Mahmut.

  I started down the slope to Menekşe. On the way, I saw Hüseyin Uzuntaş riding full speed downhill to the train station on the bicycle his father, who worked at a foundry, had made for him with his own hands. Cano was repairing a fish net. Tatar Ali had gone to the Golden Horn to weave nets for some fishermen there. Had he come back? I wondered. Nuri, I knew, had been
out fishing the night before. Maybe Mahmut had accompanied him … I looked into the coffee house. Old Hakki was there, playing gin rummy with Haydar Uyanik. The rowing boats and fishing craft were drawn upstream, away from the sea, and lay idle, a medley of many bright colours. Özkan and Ahmet the Jap were busy painting a boat orange. Kazim Aga sat in front of the coffee house, his reddened lashless eyes blinking as he peered at the sunny sky and the glinting sand. There was no one else around.

  I went on along the shore towards the Florya beaches. At his Family Casino, Veysel was alone, listening to the radio. A fat man in long white underpants, obviously very cold, his hands thrust between his thighs, was entering the water. I walked on past the presidential summer residence and came to the great plane tree in front of the Municipal Beach. A muffled booming came from the tree, scarcely audible. Its leaves were all yellow now, and turning red. Three bright red leaves came spiralling down very slowly and dropped in front of me. I looked up to see if the topmost leaves of the tree had turned red too, but these were only just becoming yellow. And as I looked I was astounded to see a very large hawk floating up there, right above the plane tree, its pointed wings stretched wide, quite motionless, as though nailed to the sky. But no, no hawk could be as large as that, nor with wings as broad. There were eagles in these parts, medium-sized tawny eagles. Last year, Nevzat had found one with a broken wing in the woods. It was a thing of beauty, that eagle, a marvel of nature. The instant its wing healed, it had flown away. Not another day had it remained in Nevzat’s house. Maybe this was a tawny eagle flying up there now. Why, if the boys managed to capture it for me, I’d give them anything they wanted …

  Now I felt I could safely go to them with that eagle floating in the sky. I passed under the bridge and, hurrying along the path between the wood and the poplar copse, I came to the tent.

  The boys greeted me with joy.

  Süleyman flung his arms out as though ready to take wing.

  “Look, Abi, look!” he cried. “Just look at what’s up there! You came and you brought that hawk with you.”

  “That’s not a hawk. Don’t you see? It’s a tawny eagle,” I said.

  Süleyman’s face fell.

  “So it’s a tawny eagle,” he murmured, all his joy gone, deflated like a pricked balloon.

  I laughed. “What’s the difference? If you can get that eagle for me, then I’ll give you anything you ask.”

  At that, both of them became gay as larks.

  “Why, think!” I said. “A tawny eagle’s nothing like a hawk. Hawks only hunt for quail, but eagles, especially tawny eagles like this one, catch rabbits too.”

  Süleyman’s eyes sparkled.

  “A rabbit can sell for forty liras, can’t it?” he asked quickly.

  “Forty liras, yes, even fifty,” I said. “It depends on the size of the rabbit.”

  He gave this a thought, then looked straight into my eyes.

  “If we could take this eagle to Ali Şah …” he ventured.

  “You’ve got to catch it first,” I said.

  “That’s easy,” he said. “See how it’s stuck there? See how nungrily it’s looking at our decoys, its head bent this way? It won’t take long to lure it down. But what a huge bird it is … What if it tears the net?”

  “I’ll get you a new one. Just you catch it.”

  “I wonder if it’s the only tawny eagle around here,” Süleyman said artfully.

  “No, it can’t be the only one,” I said.

  “Good. Abi, come back this evening and your bird will be ready for you.”

  “All right,” I said.

  Discreetly, without his seeing, I slipped some notes into his pocket. Süleyman realised at once what I was doing. He turned and looked at me with love. His large eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “Mahmut Abi will come.”

  Hayri, roused from his reverie, chipped in. “We’re going to take the birds to town to sell them. Look, he’s brought us three new cages, each one as big as a room.”

  He pointed to the cages at the foot of the barbed wire fence. Like the other cages, Mahmut’s too were now chock-full of birds, each cage a crammed seething mass of many colours.

  As I left, Süleyman, his eyes on the tawny eagle, shouted after me. “Look, Abi, the bird’s drawing nearer and nearer. It’ll be yours when you come tonight.”

  “I’ll be back,” I assured him.

  I went home and sat down in front of the window. From there, I could watch the bird and see if it did make a go for the decoys.

  Evening came, the sun went down, and still the eagle was there, hovering high above the plane tree, its wings outstretched, never moving, as though nailed to the sky. And so it remained till nightfall, never changing its stance. And then it was too dark to see anything. The poplar, the plane tree and the eagle faded into the night.

  How relieved the boys must be that I had not come back as promised, how glad …

  12

  “Confound it,” Mahmut cursed, “if only I had a little money. Damn this life. People aren’t like human beings any more. Aaah, just a little money …”

  “They wouldn’t take it,” I remarked.

  He stopped and stared at me.

  “You’re damn right they wouldn’t!” he exclaimed and his eyes brightened as though he had glimpsed a ray of hope, some honour left in the world. “Of course they wouldn’t take money just like that.”

  “Where are they now, Mahmut?” I inquired. “D’you know if they’ve caught some large bird of prey, an eagle, a hawk, a kite?”

  After a moment’s reflection, Mahmut shook his head.

  “No such thing,” he said.

  “Where are they now, the boys?”

  “Where would they be?” Mahmut laughed. “There, by their tent, trapping birds again. All the time … Their eyes fixed on the sky, waiting, hoping against hope for a large tawny eagle to fall into their nets.”

  I looked up. The bird of prey was there, circling above the plane tree high up in the sky. I could swear its wings quivered with desire and hunger, as though it had caught some delectable scent. Any moment now it would swoop down over the decoys by the clap-net …

  “I saw it too,” Mahmut declared, pleased.

  “That’s what they’re waiting for,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said glumly. “And I have to be off at dawn the day after tomorrow. I’m going fishing down by the Çanakkale Strait. I’ll be away for several weeks.”

  I gave a start.

  “But what about the children?” I cried. “And all those cages full of birds?”

  “We’ll leave that to the grace of God,” Mahmut said and smiled.

  13

  Clearly, Mahmut had not much faith in churches, mosques and synagogues, nor in the bustling quarter of Sirkeci. They loaded up the cages and started off.

  “We’ll go to the squatters’ neighbourhood of Kazliçeşme first,” Mahmut decided. “The people there are newly come from Anatolia. Maybe it’ll work with them …”

  “Let’s go,” Süleyman said.

  Hayri followed last.

  They got off the train at Kazliçeşme station, Mahmut first, then Long Süleyman, carrying the two largest cages, his neck stretching longer and longer as though it would snap off, the cages crammed to suffocation, and last of all again Hayri.

  Mahmut led them straightaway to the largest square of Kazliçeşme. There, in front of a fountain of roughhewn limestone from whose tap a trickle of water, only two fingers thick, was flowing into a large tin can, an olive-complexioned, large-eyed girl, barefooted, her hair braided in the traditional forty plaits, stood waiting for the can to fill. Behind her was a row of more girls, also barefooted, and of women, old and young, wearing flowered calico dresses and gumshoes. In a comer of the square, a group of fifteen or twenty men were crowding over something they seemed to be repairing, a motorcyle perhaps. Further off, three little boys were bowling a hoop.

  They set the cages down in t
he middle of the square and, in a moment, out of nowhere, a crowd had gathered in a circle round them. First, a multitude of children, then some very old people, the women from the fountain, the men who were repairing the motorcycle, and still more and more, the newcomers breaking through the circle to have a look at the cages, wondering what these birds had been brought here for, expectant.

  There was a long silence. Then a youth approached Mahmut and ventured to ask a question.

  “These birds …” Mahmut began, but suddenly found it difficult to explain what this was all about. “These birds … We’ve brought them so you can buy them, because …” He stopped, unable to say another word.

  “Yes, yes, but why should we buy them? What for?” the youth insisted. He, too, wore gumshoes. They were coated with mud. His patched washed-out trousers stuck tightly to his legs and the sleeves of his cheap purplish brown vest were worn and frayed. He had huge hands and he was now holding them out, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment.

  Before Mahmut could find something to say, an old man with a drooping grey moustache broke in.

  “Don’t you see?” he said. “What’s so surprising about this? These birds are for sale. We buy them to keep in a cage and to listen to their song every morning.” He paused a moment. “And in the evening too,” he added.