Ömer Asan
Ismail paced round and round the room. ‘She should be mine,’ he said over and over again, so many times that he lost count; knowing that his rival also was as determined as he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he stared at the Surmene knife hanging on the wall. ‘My knife is the best, the sharpest and the shiniest. I will win this contest.’ So saying, he carried on pacing round the room.
They were both in love with the most beautiful, the most charming, girl in the neighbourhood. Not only in this neighbourhood – young men from other neighbourhoods were burning with love for her. But she, perfidious girl that she was, did not say to whom she had given her heart and she took pleasure in tormenting her lovers. On passing one of them, she met her suitor’s love-struck eyes with her own big black smiling eyes and left him transfixed, rooted to the spot. Once when the girl was sitting on the front steps of the house with her local friends, Ismail and Kosta summoned up the courage to walk by them. At that moment, as Tenzile adjusted her skirts, for the fraction of a second they saw her grey-green cotton knickers and her thighs that had never been exposed to the sun. For days they went mad dreaming of that moment. In the hope that maybe they would see it again, they went time and time again to the same place, but now each one went alone. However, they never ever caught the girl in that position again.
* * *
The thought that Tenzile could be somebody else’s sweetheart was driving Ismail mad. He could not even bear his friends mentioning her name, let alone think of her as belonging to somebody else. He was consumed with love; so jealous, he did not even reveal anything to his best friend.
However the whole neighbourhood knew about his passion. Mocking and curious, they wondered what would come of his love; seeing that in the same neighbourhood there was another of Tenzile’s lovers, Ismail’s closest friend, Kosta. He too was tall and handsome, strong, popular with his group of friends. Nobody knew which one Tenzile loved. She deliberately treated both of them in the same way; each time she met them she gave them the same flirtatious look, smiling coquettishly, in order not to put them off.
As children, they had come from the same neighbourhood. They were close friends who were never apart, as they fished, hunted for birds, went scrumping fruit in the best-known gardens of Trabzon, and fought with the children of the neighbouring districts; so close that they took part in a ceremony with other children from the neighbourhood, cutting their wrists so that they became blood brothers. Well, now, because of their love for the same girl, there was a coldness between them; egged on by others who were jealous of their closeness, now their feelings were such that they ground their teeth at each other. Their families thought this was something to do with their age; mocking but curious, they waited to see how this would end. Both of the boys were eighteen. When they bumped into Tenzile, the overheated blood in their veins excited their brains and whipped up their crazed desire to have her.
Kosta, too, got into such a state that he could not bear Ismail’s love for Tenzile. Advice from his parents that he should give up his love just inflamed it.
He knew Ismail so well. Ismail would take it to extremes and they would end up fighting. Kosta paced up and down in front of his friend’s house, in order to get this business over and done with as soon as possible; but he did not manage to confront him. In spite of never having fought Ismail before, he was confident that he would beat him; clenching his fist tightly for hours he waited near Ismail’s house.
The older youths, in council, decided that Ismail and Kosta should have a meeting before their formal confrontation. In any case, this was required by the oath they both took on the day they became blood brothers. Both of them finally accepted this proposal, and planned to sit down side-by-side like brothers.
The two friends met in the middle of the Bridge of Zagnos. This was what had been arranged between their seconds. They crossed Long Street towards Boztepe without talking. They did not look each other in the eye. They sat down under the acacia tree at the edge of the tea-garden, from where there was a bird’s eye view of the town. It was a challenging moment for these two companions, who had never before offended each other or raised their hands against each other, even in fun.
They both at the same time beckoned to the waiter who was throwing scornful looks at them from a distance. These looks seemed to imply that the conversation was clearly going to be intense and lively.
‘Here on this hill, my friends, tea is drunk like this’ he said, putting the samovar down and sitting down beside them.
It was obvious from the quality of the samovar, so carefully tinned, that it was made by the coppersmiths of the town. It was the kind of object that you could take pleasure in just to look at. The waiter, not giving them a chance to lift a finger, meticulously warmed the glasses with hot water, as he always did. Using the sieve, he poured some brewed tea into each glass. After that he put each tea-glass, one at a time, under the samovar tap to top it up with water and make ready the tea. He was doing his work with so much care and attention, that those beside him were dying to have their glass of tea as soon as they could.
The waiter was curious to know who the two young men were. When he found out their names and their reason for coming to Boztepe, he smiled behind his hand. This smile caught the attention of the two friends. ‘Why did you smile?’ they asked the waiter coldly. ‘I have heard about your feud. I live in a neighbouring district. I have heard about that girl too; in spite of the fact that she has at least forty suitors, it is still worth fighting over her. I wish I was your age. Then you would see.’
When the waiter went away after finishing what he wanted to say, they remained alone with each other. As darkness began to fall, with the fragrant smell from the tea glasses making them lethargic, they got up and stretched their legs on the grass. The sun was painting the sky red behind the Yoros headland, and Apollo’s holy trees and flowers were settling down with bent heads, like children whose bedtime has arrived. The lights of the town were beginning their struggle against the dark, as intently as a poor Sufi who, not wishing to be mean, lights his house with his last few drops of kerosene. The blue of the sea, made phosphorescent by the light on the breakwater, turned a dark grey, before darkness began to fall. The soporific smell wafting from the acacia tree that they were leaning against, and the effect of the cooling breeze, made the two rivals forget for a moment why they were there. With the sunset, it was as if the town, following the habit of centuries, was offering her human inhabitants a few last remnants of happiness, forgetting that they had ever treated her badly; the melancholy lights in the pupils of the two young rivals disappeared from their eyes.
They stayed sitting there for two hours without saying a single word. First Ismail stood up. Then Kosta stood up leaning on the acacia tree for support. They threw each other a glance which meant ‘Oh well, I’ll see you tomorrow’ and went off in different directions. They got home late in the evening. They would go to the traditional duelling ground and whoever won, would get the girl.
* * *
As they walked towards the sound of the kemence, they saw a circle of people. The residents of the town had come in a disorderly group to stand side by side to watch today’s contest, drawn spontaneously into a circle. In the centre of the circle, a man was playing the kemence, his agile fingers those of a virtuoso; as they say, he was making the kemence speak. As he played, everyone was making up their own words. They danced the horon in a circle, holding hands; then one by one the circle threw out someone who sang their own moving words to the rhythm of the kemence, caught up in the crowd emotionand improvising in time with the bow. The crowd were lost in ecstasy and did not even notice that Ismail and Kosta were there with them.
The rhythm of the kemence changed suddenly. Kosta and Ismail came and stood stock-still in front of the circle of people. The kemence player started to play a frenzied tune well-known and popular with everyone in the area. Sometimes he played on two strings and sometimes on three, holding down the third string as a drone so that it made an accompanying chord. Kosta and Ismail were pushed into the middle of the circle. There in the open space, they started to circle each other like two angry bulls, to the rhythm of the music. At the same time, they were watching each other’s every little movement. The kemence player, as if sensing danger, moved to one side. Dressed in tight black waistcoats, black salvar and knee-high leather boots, wearing the accessories proper for every fighter, the two rivals started to dance the horon to the rhythm of the music, facing each other and with their hands clasped behind their backs. As the dance got faster, the silver buttons on their waistcoats glinted and faded away. Before long, the kemence player speeded up the dance. When the rhythm reached its peak, the horon dancers took their knives out of the sheaths hidden in their belts and positioned themselves ready to start fighting. The onlookers stopped dancing, and, in order to create the right atmosphere, started to stamp their feet. Ismail and Kosta completely cut their attention off from the people around them and started to attack each other, their hands and feet keeping time with the music. They were striking so swiftly that the eyes of the crowd could not follow the flashing blades of the knives; the onlookers were wondering if they had wounded each other and were screaming in fear. The thin sparks caused by the clash of the knives, the noise of clanging metal, the shining steel and the ‘uuyy’ cries made by the rivals when they attacked each other, all these were heart-stopping. At one point the dancers bowed their heads, hiding their knives behind their backs; then again they started to circle each other like fighting cocks. They were watching for each other’s weaknesses. All the time they were moving with the kemence, now and again standing still, and then going on with the horon; they were making a sound like the hissing of a snake, to inject heat into the fight and into the kemence player. They started to attack each other again when the horon once more reached a climax. The knives flew through the air, bending, twisting and straightening up, arcing down and up, the handle and the point seeming to come together as if they were merging. It was amazing to see how the dancers mirrored each other’s movements, taking this contest as seriously as people facing life and death in war. At one point the dance was moving so swiftly that the kemence player thought the horon dancers were trying to make life difficult for him by speeding up the rhythm. Thereupon the kemence bow and the knives struggled to see which could go fastest. The onlookers were ecstatic. Their heads turned back and forth watching the horon dancers and the kemence player; they jumped up and down in the same way, finding it difficult to keep up with their steps. The fighters and kemence player were covered in sweat. Nobody had any intention of giving up. The onlookers, carried away with excitement, tried to provoke the fighters by shouting ‘ula’; nobody in recent years had experienced a fight quite like this.
Just as it seemed that one of them would be beaten, they both started to show signs of tiredness. Thereupon, the circle of onlookers again impatiently started a horon in order to put the fighters in the right mood again.
Ismail looked Kosta in the eyes. In a state of indecision he circled around his friend, not knowing whether or not to strike the last blow. But he was avoiding every opportunity to do so. Kosta too, in the same position, responded to Ismail by avoiding his rival’s weaknesses. It was as if they had come to a secret agreement.
At this point Tenzile stepped forward out of her position in the horon circle; though it was obvious that her friends had pushed her forward, because she was uncomfortable and kept looking back. She also could see that the players did not want to strike each other. Where she was now, the fighters could see her easily.
She was wearing a cotton dress with a colourful pattern. Her strong body, her big black eyes, her curved lips which could have been drawn by an artist, and her bullet-hard breasts drew the eyes of the crowd irresistibly onto her.
The young girl easily got over her confusion. She watched the fight standing in front of the crowd, flicking back her black hair now and then and pretending that she was paying no attention to her surroundings; with her chewing gum in her mouth she kept glancing at the fighting youths with a scornful, uneasy and impatient look, as if it was no concern of hers.
The dancers caught sight of Tenzile. They had got carried away with their fighting and had forgotten her. Now seeing her two steps away from them was something that they were not expecting. However they had no more strength and no more wish to attack each other. Lowering their knives below their waists, they carried on dancing the horon. They observed Tenzile out of the corner of their eyes. It was obvious from their expressions that they were thinking the same thing. The kemence player understood too and slowed down the music.
Ismail and Kosta started to study each other covertly, and for a moment their eyes met. In that brief glance, the eyes of both of them filled with tears. Meanwhile the kemence player was worried that the fight would not be concluded properly so he tried to speed up the horon. At a signal from Ismail, who raised his eyebrow, the kemence player started to play the fastest tune known in the neighbourhood, which was understood to be the finale. Dancing the siksara firstly face to face and then side by side, the two contestants put their knives in their waistbands. Hand in hand, they started dancing, keeping time to the music which the kemence player persisted in speeding up. They were dancing so rhythmically and so furiously that they were covered in sweat from head to foot; their ribs, invisible at their backs, could not keep up and, instead of protecting the hearts of the two young Trabzon lads, they moved to the rhythm of the horon.
The onlookers became frustrated when they saw the young men hand in hand. This may have been common in ordinary dancing but in fighting it was something unexpected. Ceasing to dance the horon, the crowd started to make angry noises; they felt betrayed and quickly left the circle, some booing and some swearing; and they started to leave the meydan. The kemence player, too, left the meydan, abandoning his kemence and bow on the ground to show that he thought they had brought him here for nothing.
When the music grew silent, the two young men could hardly stay on their feet. Ismail and Kosta studied each other face to face with a smile. A moment after this look, swaying on their feet as it was difficult to stand, they hugged each other in the middle of the busy meydan and collapsed on the ground in each other’s embrace.
Ignoring her friends’ nudges and in a state of confusion, Tenzile was looking at the young men lying on the ground. This was the most humiliating moment a young girl could experience. She had never thought that this would happen. She had expected her popularity to soar when the knife was given to her after the fight by the winner.
The young girl went right up close to the heads of the two lying on the ground. The eyes of Ismail and Kosta at the same moment caught sight of spotted cotton bloomers on very white thighs. Tenzile was shaking with fury. She spat in their faces and in a strangled voice shouted ‘God damn you’. Then she spun round wildly so that her skirts flew up round her waist.
The young girl was then dragged away by her friends up the street where the crowd was still angry and talking loudly about what had just happened. With love-struck eyes, the young men had looked up at the very white thighs under her skirt, and the wind had carried her scent to their noses – a scent that old people call the scent of damnation. It made the two fighters so lose their heads that they began to consider starting another passionate fight.