Read Online Birds Without Wings by Louis De Bernières - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis De Bernières
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therefore, was either wildly brave or quite insane to live in the tombs, and this added to his intrinsic and extraordinary mystique.
It had not taken long for him to become an integral part of the town’s conception of itself, because the rules of hospitality were inflexibly observed. Visitors were either the responsibility of the aga, who was obliged to entertain them in his konak, or else of the entire community, in which case the guest stayed in the khan, and the men would arrive with small dishes of food, sitting afterwards, smoking their çubuks in exemplary and companionable silence, until it was time to sleep. It was bad manners indeed for a guest to be left alone even for a moment, and their resolute and stalwart hosts soon developed a mental technique for enduring hours of abject boredom with perfect equanimity.
In the case of the Dog, however, it was unclear as to whether this was a guest or a new resident, or even whether he could be considered to be a bona fide human being. Besides, nobody, however bold their disposition or generous their nature, very much wanted to sit about with a creature of such ghastly aspect, amid the evening chill of the tombs and the emerging stars, and so it was that they arrived with their small but honourable offerings of kadinbudu köfte, green beans in olive oil and iç pilàv, and then departed, having greeted him with a quiet “Hoş geldiniz.” Upon their return they told their wide-eyed wives and children about the grotesque and horrifying smile of the stranger, and from that time on the Dog went barely a day without a steady trickle of small gifts from those who arrived to observe him quite shamelessly, as if he were an entertainment provided for them by fate. When the aga heard about his arrival he sent a servant upwith the customary sabre and loaded pistol, so that the stranger would have the capacity for self-defence. The weapons rusted in a corner of a tomb, until finally they were stolen by one of the unwashed at the time of the olive harvest.
Karatavuk and Mehmetçik scrambled through the rocks, their steps releasing the scents of oregano and thyme, and the sun causing the stones to radiate with a borrowed but mysteriously magnified heat. They passed the first of the sarcophagal tombs, whose sides were carved with serried naked warriors brandishing swords and shields, and then stopped to catch their breath and look around. The Dog had got into the habit of moving from tomb to tomb, living in one, and then another, as if he were spoiled for choice and could not make up his mind. The boys spotted him further up the hillside, and then spied on him with disgusted delight as he scraped a hole in the earth with a stone, defecated into it painfully and then covered it once again with soil. “He does it like a cat,” whispered Karatavuk, his voice full of wonder.
“He’s supposed to be a dog,” said Mehmetçik.
“Let’s go and see my father working,” suggested Karatavuk, feeling guilty about having watched the Dog at a moment that should have been absolutely private. In any case, it was always wonderful to see his father shaping pots and getting splattered by mud. “I’ll race you down the hill,” said Mehmetçik, and set off at a run before his friend had had a chance to agree. “Cheat! Cheat!” shouted Karatavuk, leaping down the hillside in Mehmetçik’s wake, pulling threads out of the legs of his baggy shalwar as they caught on the thorns of the maquis.
Iskander the Potter looked up with pleasure as the two little boys thudded breathlessly to a halt in the shadow of the wicker canopy that served him as shelter for his work. Karatavuk was his favourite child, and it always gave him a thrill of pride and pleasure when his beloved son took his hand, kissed it, touched it to his forehead, and called him “Baba.” The child never minded getting wet clay on his lips, and strained upward when his father bent down to kiss him on the top of his head, calling him
It had not taken long for him to become an integral part of the town’s conception of itself, because the rules of hospitality were inflexibly observed. Visitors were either the responsibility of the aga, who was obliged to entertain them in his konak, or else of the entire community, in which case the guest stayed in the khan, and the men would arrive with small dishes of food, sitting afterwards, smoking their çubuks in exemplary and companionable silence, until it was time to sleep. It was bad manners indeed for a guest to be left alone even for a moment, and their resolute and stalwart hosts soon developed a mental technique for enduring hours of abject boredom with perfect equanimity.
In the case of the Dog, however, it was unclear as to whether this was a guest or a new resident, or even whether he could be considered to be a bona fide human being. Besides, nobody, however bold their disposition or generous their nature, very much wanted to sit about with a creature of such ghastly aspect, amid the evening chill of the tombs and the emerging stars, and so it was that they arrived with their small but honourable offerings of kadinbudu köfte, green beans in olive oil and iç pilàv, and then departed, having greeted him with a quiet “Hoş geldiniz.” Upon their return they told their wide-eyed wives and children about the grotesque and horrifying smile of the stranger, and from that time on the Dog went barely a day without a steady trickle of small gifts from those who arrived to observe him quite shamelessly, as if he were an entertainment provided for them by fate. When the aga heard about his arrival he sent a servant upwith the customary sabre and loaded pistol, so that the stranger would have the capacity for self-defence. The weapons rusted in a corner of a tomb, until finally they were stolen by one of the unwashed at the time of the olive harvest.
Karatavuk and Mehmetçik scrambled through the rocks, their steps releasing the scents of oregano and thyme, and the sun causing the stones to radiate with a borrowed but mysteriously magnified heat. They passed the first of the sarcophagal tombs, whose sides were carved with serried naked warriors brandishing swords and shields, and then stopped to catch their breath and look around. The Dog had got into the habit of moving from tomb to tomb, living in one, and then another, as if he were spoiled for choice and could not make up his mind. The boys spotted him further up the hillside, and then spied on him with disgusted delight as he scraped a hole in the earth with a stone, defecated into it painfully and then covered it once again with soil. “He does it like a cat,” whispered Karatavuk, his voice full of wonder.
“He’s supposed to be a dog,” said Mehmetçik.
“Let’s go and see my father working,” suggested Karatavuk, feeling guilty about having watched the Dog at a moment that should have been absolutely private. In any case, it was always wonderful to see his father shaping pots and getting splattered by mud. “I’ll race you down the hill,” said Mehmetçik, and set off at a run before his friend had had a chance to agree. “Cheat! Cheat!” shouted Karatavuk, leaping down the hillside in Mehmetçik’s wake, pulling threads out of the legs of his baggy shalwar as they caught on the thorns of the maquis.
Iskander the Potter looked up with pleasure as the two little boys thudded breathlessly to a halt in the shadow of the wicker canopy that served him as shelter for his work. Karatavuk was his favourite child, and it always gave him a thrill of pride and pleasure when his beloved son took his hand, kissed it, touched it to his forehead, and called him “Baba.” The child never minded getting wet clay on his lips, and strained upward when his father bent down to kiss him on the top of his head, calling him
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