“I’ll go to Tomurcuk … Animals … House … A nice spot …”
Mübarek didn’t listen. She didn’t care about the rest.
Ebcet studied the newcomers closely as he drew the first drag of his cigarette. Mübarek and Saniye had settled themselves in a dark corner of the room like cockroaches, whispering to one another. Derdâ was teaching Fehime how to write her name. Why the hell did they have to come now? thought Ebcet. Two more mouths to feed. He hardly earned enough to feed himself. What were they going to eat, this woman and her bastard daughter? If he threw them out, he would be disgraced in the eyes of the villagers. What did Sheik Gazi say? You should be a father to the fatherless. But how? The snack shop was not doing well. Sales were down since the gendarme started cracking down on smuggled cigarettes. Nobody’s business was good in the village. His thoughts made him worry and he stood up. Everybody fell silent. Except Mübarek.
“Do you want something?”
“Come with me.”
Mübarek followed her husband. They left the house and went out into the cold. Ebcet lit another cigarette off the one he was smoking.
“When are they leaving?”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” said Mübarek. “Saniye wants Derdâ to marry. Maybe you could tell Sheik Gazi’s son. Someone might come up.”
Ebcet held the smoke in his throat and looked at Mübarek in the dark. God had seen him! He exhaled all his worries with the smoke leaving his mouth.
“All right, I’ll speak to him. How old is she?”
“Eleven,” said Mübarek.
“Maşallah,” said Ebcet.
The approach to Girinti village looked like a car lot. People from all over had come to see Sheik Gazi. They gathered together in the village square kissing the old people’s hands and offering each other cigarettes. They hardly had time to speak. Then a six-year-old boy shouted, “They’re here!”
A caravan of four cars twice as long as normal cars pulled up into the village. The crowd swarmed the cars. The villagers had already decided among themselves who would be the first to kiss the Gazi’s feet. The chosen ones waited for the doors to open. Which car was Sheik Gazi in? Who would be the one lucky enough to kiss his feet first? Which door would he come out of? No one could see a damn thing through the tinted windows!
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
