Yusuf Eradam <\/p>\n
FOAL ON THE PITCHFORK<\/p>\n
I easily get upset, true. They say once I lose my temper, I can\u2019t control myself. That\u2019s how my father used to boast to his hunting friends. Of course he is right. All this is because of me. It\u2019s because I make up my mind right away. My father didn\u2019t like my hands. They were so small, he used to say, I should have been born a girl. How can I train my father? Who am I to train my father? My father. The most notorious trainer of our country. He puts his family first, and then comes the rest. He used to say that, members of the family should give a hand to one another, or else the family would fall to pieces, would crumble, would be torn apart, heaven forbid. That was what my father used to tell my elder brothers and sisters every time we sat at the supper table, and me especially, the youngest son, while shaking his forefinger at me. A father is like a \u201cstretcher\u201d, he keeps the family together, he would say. I hadn\u2019t known what a stretcher meant until I saw the men laying the parquet in our farmhouse.<\/p>\n
My mother would not utter a sound. She would keep her eyes on my father\u2019s hands for a while, then taking courage from her eyes fixed below, she would start to pass out the soup. My mom would begin household chores with the name of \u201cAllah\u201d, too. In my eyes, Allah used to go between the tip of my father\u2019s forefinger and my mother\u2019s eyes. I heard Allah at that supper table. Allah looked at me through the eyes of my mother and said \u201cThe scholar\u2019s son becomes a tyrant, the tyrant\u2019s son becomes a scholar\u201d. I thought that one day my father\u2019s forefinger would come off and stick my mother in the eyes. My father\u2019s hands were so big, so big they were. <\/p>\n
I was only four when my father killed \u201cOlive\u201d. While I was swimming in the creek near our home, I heard Olive wailing. I ran. I couldn\u2019t get there in time. My father had already hanged him on a big plum tree. My father\u2019s hands were so big, he could use a shovel as easily as a toothpick. He wasn\u2019t the least affected as he hit Olive with the shovel. \u201cThere you are, you bloody dog. I take all the pains to catch that woodcock, and there now, I\u2019ll give you a good lesson, to hell with you!\u201d The red which was running down Olive\u2019s head was filling his eyes and washing out his body, it created a small pool on the earth. Soon Olive was silent. His last sound was so weak, it was as if he was whispering \u201cthyyyyme\u201d from his throat filled with red, the \u201ciiii\u201d sounding like the wheat leaves being crushed between the rusty notches of the pitchfork. I could not make a sound, I could not, I was afraid that Allah calling me from my mother\u2019s eyes, would pass on to my father\u2019s hands and say something to me from there. I thought I would die. Death was now in my father\u2019s shovellike hands. I didn\u2019t want to meet my father\u2019s Allah. And I didn\u2019t kill Olive, that I know. My father is lying. <\/p>\n
Someone, probably my mother, is pulling my hand. She doesn\u2019t want me to see it. \u201cPatos! He wants the boy to be like him,\u201d she whispers to my nanny. My nanny, who tells me stories of amourous clouds, looks down. I am dying, nanny. Tell me a story. My nanny\u2019s bosom smells of thyme. How do my eyes soak the thyme. My mother\u2019s velvety hands, my nanny\u2019s thyme-smelling bosom.<\/p>\n
I was so scared that my ex-soldier father would train you the same way. But you had entered my world like cotton balls, like colorful festival ballons, like my first teacher\u2019s affectionate strokes. You expanded in me like the creek I bathed in. It looked like you knew it while you used to hop around like a deer, it was like you were a boy waiting for his summons to arrive, you were too young to recieve military service summons. I died, that you would receive the same training.<\/p>\n
My father used to get me toy guns to play with. I would play with my marbles. I would play dahlia. I would play notak with my pals. I would play five stones and jump rope. My father\u2019s toys were too big for my hands. Big guns, rope, fishing rod, rifle, horsewhip… aren\u2019t you a man, he would ask. Hey woman, his mother, is this boy some sort of a mix?<\/p>\n
I always run to Ali, to the most friendly shepherd in the whole village. Ali would tell me the names of the sheep. He knows them all, and never beats them. Ali\u2019s hands are big too, but he only holds a twig and waves it in the air. The twig strokes the sheep. I get lost in Ali\u2019s stories. \u2018Where have you been, you devil?\u2019 yells my father. His big hand slaps my face. \u2018I wonder if Allah created you, you jerk,\u2019 he says. I stumble towards my nanny, I see my nanny and my mom hold out their hands. How would I know which direction I would be tossed away by the force of those big hands? I fall on the earth, waving my arms in the air. I am a kite, I fly, my rope in the hands of my father. My jaw hits the edge of the furnace where my favorite meal \u201ckeshkek\u201d is being cooked, where the village women gather to make \u201cshepe\u201d. That\u2019s how I got the scar on my jaw. <\/p>\n
It is my father who raised me to be so timid and frightened. I learned to obey. I should not be afraid of the blowing wind, of the howling dogs, or of all the threatening things. I should be brave, he would say, I could survive only when I had felt the breath of death on my neck. This is why Hemingway was so fond of bull-fighting, he used to say. My father loved bull-fighting, too. He thought he was a matador. He would tell me about the bull fights he had watched during his business trips to Spain, I would think of the bull, but mostly, of the horse. A horse, who could race with the wind in the meadows, can be slain by an accidental blow from the horns of the bull, he used to say. While walking around mightily, the bull which missed the matador could as well blow up the stomachs of the poor horses which carry the assistants of the matadors who infuriate them by prodding the bull with their sticks. Lucky are those on the horses who could save their lives from those blows! he would say. First be tamed, then get your stomach burst out! It\u2019s hard to be a man. I can\u2019t be a man. They would call out \u201cOle!\u201d. I can\u2019t say that. I can\u2019t say \u201cOle!\u201d<\/p>\n
And he would never give up wearing those gloves. I would die when he put on those gloves. I would turn my face to the wall. I wouldn\u2019t want to see.<\/p>\n
My father had many stories to tell. I learned so much from him. My father loved to talk about the greatest tragic hero. \u201cTell me, you wimp, what is it that has four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? Ha, ha, can\u2019t guess, right?\u201d Man. I didn\u2019t know the answer the first time, then later each time he directed the question at me, I would cry out \u201cMan!\u201d, like a soldier yelling out \u201cAye, aye sir!\u201d, to his commander, and my father would stroke my head roughly. The Sphinx asked Oedipus this riddle about man. My father says it\u2019s destiny. He says it\u2019s Allah\u2019s will. When Oedipus of Tebai had four legs, the oracles said that this baby was going to kill his father, marry his own mother, and be brother to his own children. His father the King, who had a fear of dying, gave baby Oedipus to a shepherd and ordered that the baby be killed on the mountains. How big my father\u2019s hands were.<\/p>\n
And he never gave up using the horsewhip. When he did so, I\u2019d say \u201chere we go\u201d, cover my ears and turn my face to the wall. I wouldn\u2019t want to hear. <\/p>\n
Pitying the baby, the shepherd gave the baby to a childless couple in a remote place. And then the omen materialized. Oedipus, who became a hero when he had answered Sphinx\u2019s riddle correctly only realized that the omen had taken place when the shepherd recognized him from the birthmark on his ankle. Only then did he know who he really was. So that was it. \u201cOne musn\u2019t boast about today but be apprehensive of tomorrow,\u201d my father used to say. I used to think smoking cigars would suit him better than cigarettes. He used to wear thick gloves to keep his hands from tearing up when holding the rope. The hands of those who read books wouldn\u2019t have corns on them, he would say. My father\u2019s hands ached. My hands ache now, too but I know that I am not the cause of your death, either. My father can not lie anymore. <\/p>\n
And he never gave up putting on his boots. When he did so, I would nearly faint of fear. I wished I would die, I remember telling myself. Die. And turn my face to the wall forever. <\/p>\n
I woke up to your voice, on that day when they brought you to the farm. My father had just arrived from town. I don\u2019t know what he does in town. My mother says he is doing some sort of tricks there but all the same… My uncle says he is the Prime Minister\u2019s right hand. Even members of the Parliament are afraid of him. The farm is filled with joy. Both my father and you have arrived. You, the most beautiful foal in the world. Foal. You were so beautiful that I was totally unable to give you a name. So I\u2019ll call you \u2018foal\u2019. Please forgive me. It is this man standing next to you, holding on your ropes, it is this bully who won\u2019t let me have you. Who thinks I am too much for you. I begged and I yelled, pleaded with my father, pleaded with them all, not to train you. I die every time a foal is trained. They say your arrogance can only disappear when you have those oily ropes and nooses on your neck. Your trotting around the world with an air of utmost dignity and grandeur can only be tamed when you think you are going to be strangled, when the ropes tighten around your neck from all around… when your eyes pop out Foal. They say I am a very good boy, too, look how much everybody likes me, you are going to be like me they say, obedient and cute. Otherwise, they say, you would be rebellious, you would wander off. They have to tighten the rope until you are breathless, this is called \u201cfoal strangling\u201d they say. There is no harm in this, they say, or else the foals run around deliriously, scared of even a plastic bag, they can only become a real horse when they get so close to death, when they get breathless, only when they breathlessly feel death on their necks, they say…<\/p>\n
My father put on his gloves. I died. My father picked up his horsewhip. I wished I could melt into the wall. I did not cover my ears this time. I see your eyes, your slim ankles, I was a kite among the clouds the moment I saw you. I flew over cliffs and hills with you, but only with you could I free myself from my rope, otherwise it wouldn\u2019t be flying for real, just like the flying of a kite isn\u2019t. The end of my rope is in my father\u2019s hands, Foal. This is not the way I want to fly. The clouds ask me to break off my ropes. \u201cFollow us,\u201d the clouds say, I can\u2019t, my father holds my rope. He holds it tighter and tighter. Hold out your hands, he yells. I run faster and faster… my hands stretched out, I find myself sitting in my bed soaked in sweat. Did you have another nightmare my son, says my mother, my nanny, the moon refracting on her henna stained palms, sighs deeply. My nanny turns to the other side on the mattress resting on the floor, my arms go under the quilt with the help of my mom\u2019s velvety hands. The moonlight is like my mother\u2019s misty eyes.<\/p>\n
My father picked up his horsewhip. If only I couldn\u2019t hear its sound on your back.
\nI will not. And I did not. <\/p>\n
But I heard my father putting on his boots. \u201cThis time we will strangle you with the ropes I brought from Ankara, boys, I brought imported torture ropes.\u201d<\/p>\n
I know torture. The floormen who laid the parquet on the floor of our farmhouse were tightening the wood with a rubberlike belt. They said this was called \u201cstretching\u201d when I asked about it. Or \u201ctorture\u201d, or \u201cpitchfork\u201d, they had said. It was used to keep the parquet pieces intact, to prevent them from loosening. My father used to compare himself to a stretcher. I keep this family together, he would say. You would all be devastated without me, he used to say. If not for my father, we would have been scattered all around, and become food for the birds and the wolves. How he liked this metaphor. Being food for the birds and the wolves.<\/p>\n
We have. We\u2019d rather be. The sun was so scorching that day. Foal, you were going to be tamed. With the first noose on your neck, your eyes popped out… I saw those eyes later in Picasso\u2019s Guernica. You pulled on the rope on your neck, and started to run, and… so did I…<\/p>\n
This time I\u2019m going to make it. I\u2019ll die if I don\u2019t. <\/p>\n
My father, screaming \u201ctake this shit out of my way, he\u2019s going to be smashed!\u201d, was running at the same time. I am the shit. Foal, what made you run to the cliff that opened up to the valley behind the farm? I would have liked to watch the stars with you in that valley which at night I now think resembles the sea.<\/p>\n
I got carried away. When I saw you flying down the cliff like a kite whose rope broke off…<\/p>\n
\u201cFoooal!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFoal\u201d, what a lovely word. The mouth gets ready for a smile when you utter it. My father threw a noose made of the imported rope at that moment and with his huge hands as competent as ever, he expertly put the rope around your delicate neck. Your eyes were Guernica again. My eyes, my eyes were Guernica, too. My father was trying to pull you up the cliff. Don\u2019t stretch it, Father. He\u2019s just a foal. My father pulls you up slowly. What has happened to your eyes? Soon, more imported ropes will be around your neck, the torture will begin again. I looked at my hands. Your hands are so small, you jerk, like a girl\u2019s hands! Hold out your hands, hey guys, see what a man\u2019s hands look like! The men at the rak\u0131 table will look at my hands again, and they will laugh with their dirty teeth showing. He should have been a girl, man! they would say and laugh. Lemme see your hands!!!<\/p>\n
I\u2019ll die if I can\u2019t make it this time. <\/p>\n
I held my hands out. My father\u2019s boots on the edge of the cliff slipped. My father is waving his hands as if he wants to fly .<\/p>\n
\u201cFoooal!\u201d<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t want my father to strangle foals. Don\u2019t let him put on those stiff leathery gloves, don\u2019t let him strike with the whip, or tread on my dreams with his boots. I have had enough, we have had enough of my father\u2019s might. Oh, foal. I wanted them not to tame you, not to teach you to obey. I did not want them to make you bow down to them, all I wanted was…<\/p>\n
Down the cliff with my father and right on the crossroads… In the space between you lies the rope. Its mark is still on your neck. My father lies on the ground like the Sphinx. His head bent down like the Sphinx.<\/p>\n
\u201cBoth have broken their necks,\u201d someone said. I heard him. <\/p>\n
You have four legs, my father has two.<\/p>\n
Now I am far away. I will never return to those sinister lands where Foals are strangled and Olives are murdered. Motherland. Pitchfork. The three notched fork. <\/p>\n
I don\u2019t jump rope. My mother\u2019s velvety hands are on me, my nanny\u2019s thyme-smelling bosom on my mind, and your eyes always in front of my eyes. That\u2019s why, Foal. I have survived.<\/p>\n
My father loved to strangle foals. Otherwise, he said, man can not survive.
\n(Translated by N. Berrin Aksoy) <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Yusuf Eradam FOAL ON THE PITCHFORK I easily get upset, true. They say once I lose my temper, I can\u2019t control myself. That\u2019s how my father used to boast to his hunting friends. Of course he is right. All this is because of me. It\u2019s because I make up my mind right away. My father … <\/p>\n