The Wounded Age and Eastern Tales by Ferit Edgü

Author:Ferit Edgü
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2023-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

THE STORY OF IBRAM, SON OF IBRAM

I HEARD their story from Halit.

•

Between late April and early May, when the snows turned to slush, the sunny days began to return, and the bears started leaving their caves at the end of a long winter sleep, I was out one morning with Halit, who had been trying to interest me in hunting, and we decided to stop and catch our breath, after slogging through the wet snow.

As I sat in the hollow of a rock, lit the cigarette Halit had rolled for me, and stared into the distance where two hills closing on each other formed a mountain pass, I saw a hamlet made of three or four houses shrouded in the morning fog.

Chilled to my bones and craving a hot cup of tea, I told Halit, “Let’s go take a look,” but he refused. “We’re out hunting, Teacher, not strolling.” Failing to see the point of his objection, I tried to insist, but to no avail: “No, no, not there.”

In this region where it was considered the custom to stop by every house in every village along the way and enjoy a cup of tea, I didn’t understand Halit’s reaction. Reading perhaps the confusion in my eyes, he said, “We can’t visit that village when I’m with you,” adding in vague, half-veiled words that I shouldn’t go on my own either.

As he spoke, he looked away, not at me or at the cluster of houses and the trees that came into clearer view as the morning fog subsided. Restless, he turned his back first to me, then to the cliffs, then to the village below, staring straight at the mountain summit. “No,” he said, “I can’t do it. It’d be unbecoming of me to go with you.”

I understood nothing. Remained silent.

“We came to hunt, let’s go hunt.”

I repeated what I had already told him a thousand times: “I don’t enjoy hunting. I enjoy drinking tea with people I don’t know.”

“Go then,” Halit said, his back still facing me.

What’s the harm in going down and stopping by a house to drink their tea?

“To each his own hunt,” I said, standing up. I handed my rifle to Halit. “Take this, if you don’t mind. I’ll meet you back in the village.”

As if he heard none of my words, Halit turned around and this time looked me in the eye.

“That’s Ibram’s village,” he said. “Trust me, I can’t go there. I can’t, even if I wanted to.” Then, as if talking not to me but to the mountain or the prey he was dreaming of hunting, he added, “Don’t insist. And don’t go, either.”

“Which Ibram? Who is this Ibram?” I asked.

“My cellmate in the penitentiary, didn’t I tell you already?”

“Why, then, you can say hi to his mother, father, his wife or children.”

“I can’t. He has no father, mother, wife, or children.”

“Then what’s the risk?” I said, trying to smile.

“You’re right. No risk. Still, if you’re my friend, you shouldn’t go down either. Let’s mind our business.

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