Read Online Birds Without Wings by Louis De Bernières - Free Book Online Page B

“My lion.” Karatavuk was glad of his father, and basked in such signs of affection. As far as he was concerned, his father’s only shortcoming, albeit a grievous one, was that he did not possess a gun, although he did have a yataghan with a heavy curved blade and engraved handle, inlaid with silver, and he did have a few equally beautiful daggers that he wore through his sash. Iskander the Potter felt the lack of a gun as keenly as his son, and was in fact producing a surplus of pots so that he could sell them in Telmessos, in order to raise the money for the smith.
    Iskander was tall and wiry, with massive hands whose fingers had been worn flat and smooth by so much shaping of clay. He was burned dark by the sun, even though he worked in the shade, and the roots of his hair were just beginning to turn grey. His moustache drooped at the corners of his mouth, and when he laughed his teeth, like those of almost everyone else, were revealed to be browned and corroded by so much toping of sweetened apple tea. His legs were lean and muscular from so much kicking of the stone wheel, and for the same reason he moved with a subtle and graceful rhythm that reminded women of making love. He was fond of inventing riddles and improbable proverbs, and possessed the kind of impatient wit that showed a certain lack of resignation.
    Iskander had three sets of clothes: one for working at the wheel, when he would become caked in clay, one for the tea house, and one for high days. In general he was pleased to be a potter, and therefore such a necessary man, but he was wearied by life’s lack of variety. Like everyone else, he also worked his own small plot of land, in addition to another one rented from the aga in return for a proportion of his crop, and was irritated with himself because whenever he was at his pots he wished he was at his fields, and whenever he was at his fields he wished he was at his wheel.
    When the two boys arrived, Iskander was making a crock large enough to hold a fair measure of water, and his hands were moving in concert up and down the surface of it, leaving behind the even spiral created by his fingers. “Which is more useful,” he asked them, “the sun or the moon?”
    “The moon,” said Mehmetçik.
    “How did you know?” asked Iskander, disappointed.
    Mehmetçik rubbed his nose with his hand and replied, “I guessed.”
    “Well, you’re right, but you don’t know why.” He paused for effect, and said, “The moon is more important because you need the light more at night than you do during the day when it’s light.” He smiled, gratified by his pleasantry, and scratched his forehead, passing his finger under his turban, and leaving yet another dirty streak upon it. The boys looked at each other in bemusement, trying to figure the sense of the potter’s answer, and Iskander asked them, “Why is a potter second only to God?”
    The boys shook their heads in unison, and Iskander explained, “Because God created everything out of earth, air, fire and water, and these are the very same things that a potter uses to make his vessels. When a potter makes something, he acts in the image of God.”
    “Are you more important than the Sultan Padishah, then?” asked Mehmetçik, astonished.
    “Not on earth,” replied Iskander, “but perhaps in paradise.” He got upfrom his seat and stretched, saying, “I’ve made something for you, something special.” He reached into his sash and brought out two small terracotta objects, presenting one to each of the boys, one for Abdul his son, and the other for Nicos.
    What he gave them appeared at first sight to be a small amphora, except that he had moulded the neck so that it resembled the head of a bird, with a beak and two small holes for eyes. Out of sheer whimsy, he had given each one a small turban. Instead of a handle he had made a hollow tail whose extremity was skilfully pierced so that it became a whistle, and he had placed two simple loops of clay