PRAISE FOR Serenade for Nadia

  “Compelling … fearless and eloquent.”

  —Wall Street Journal

  “[An] affecting novel about love, loss, and personal identity…Livaneli smoothly switches between 2001 and 1938–1942, offering insights into Turkey’s rich cultural, political, ethnic, and religious divides. Livaneli’s worthy portrait of a man coming to terms with his tragic past and a woman coming to terms with her Turkish heritage delivers a forceful plea for openness and tolerance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Heartbreakingly vivid…Livaneli’s passion in exposing Turkey’s and the West’s culpability in real massacres is eloquent…[Serenade for Nadia is] hard to forget.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Writer. Musician. Philosopher. Zülfü Livaneli is one of my favorite authors. With Serenade for Nadia, he has written a masterpiece about love and music, connecting Turkey’s complex and rich history to the present day. So happy that Livaneli’s words can now inspire millions more with this new English translation, and that the world will get to know one of the true cultural treasures coming out of Turkey.”

  —Hamdi Ulukaya, CEO of Chobani

  “This wonderfully evocative novel does far more than introduce one of Turkey’s great creative artists to American audiences. It is also a fast-paced and intensely emotional account of modern history that leads us to reflect on the ways that people and nations confront their past.”

  —Stephen Kinzer, author of Crescent and Star: Turkey Between Two Worlds

  PRAISE FOR Disquiet

  “Entirely captivating.” —New York Times Book Review “[An] arresting novel.” —The New Yorker

  “A tale of identities colliding from a writer who’s held five passports…[Disquiet] unfolds in a border town caught between its ancient past and tumultuous present.”

  —NPR, All Things Considered

  “A somber, pensive novel, by one of Turkey’s greatest modern writers…Livaneli’s slender narrative contains multitudes…[An] intensely emotional, memorable story.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “A keenly wrought story…[whose] urgency comes through in its tight grasp on the problems of religious violence, misogyny, and the failures of compassion. The result is a memorable illumination of the Yezidi people’s rich history.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A penetrating novel…indelible fiction based on real-life horror…[Disquiet] will demand attention, provoke outrage, perhaps even inspire lifesaving change.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “A moving novel set entirely in the modern-day Middle East.”

  —PopSugar, Best New Books of the Month

  “Impactful…[a] fascinating novel about a man caught between cultures.”

  —Foreword Reviews

  PRAISE FOR The Last Island

  “This haunting fable of a President’s war against seagulls feels all the more relevant to our times in its absurdity and heartbreak. Livaneli has written a lucid account of a community’s shattering alongside natural devastation. A wise and piercing book.”

  —Ayşegül Savaş, author of White on White and Walking on the Ceiling

  “In this beautifully written book, Livaneli poetically recounts the story of how societies get corrupted by self-serving autocratic leaders. Livaneli’s riveting The Last Island provides a much-needed and uplifting read for all in need of resilience and hope.”

  —Soner Cagaptay, author of A Sultan in Autumn: Erdogan Faces Turkey’s Uncontainable Forces

  “With this novel Livaneli has entered through the grand gates of literature.”

  —Yashar Kemal, author of Memed, My Hawk

  “Urgent and allegorical, Livaneli is masterful in his depiction of how authoritarian power destroys a community’s people and environment. The Last Island is a stunning novel that will stay with me for a long time.”

  —Mina Seçkin, author of The Four Humors

  “This book is a recipe of what authoritarianism is made of. Some readers might start the reading thinking this is only directed to current politics in Turkey. However, it quickly emerges that it is about decades of power struggles, with a message that within this vicious circle there are no happy endings.”

  —Louis Fishman, author of Jews and Palestinians in the Late Ottoman Era, 1908–1914: Claiming the Homeland

  “Human nature and authority come face-to-face in Livaneli’s unparalleled, creative novel. The author invites us to rethink the world we live in.”

  —Lenore Martin, Emmanuel College and Harvard University

  ALSO BY ZÜLFÜ LIVANELI

  The Last Island

  Disquiet

  Serenade for Nadia

  Bliss

  Copyright © Zülfü Livaneli 2021

  Originally published in Turkish as Balıkçı ve Oğlu in 2021

  by İnkılâp Kitabevi, Istanbul

  English translation copyright © Brendan Freely 2022

  Production editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas Text designer: Jennifer Daddio / Bookmark Design & Media Inc.

  This book was set in Baskerville and Baka Too by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 267 Fifth Avenue, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10016.

  Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows: Names: Livaneli, Zülfü, 1946- author. | Freely, Brendan, 1959- translator. Title: The fisherman and his son / Zülfü Livaneli; translated from the Turkish by Brendan Freely.

  Other titles: Balıkçı ve oğlu. English

  Description: New York : Other Press, [2022]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022050271 (print) | LCCN 2022050272 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635423662 (paperback) | ISBN 9781635423679 (ebook)

  Ebook ISBN 9781635423679

  Subjects: LCGFT: Domestic fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PL248.L58 B3513 2022 (print) |

  LCC PL248.L58 (ebook) | DDC 894/.3533—dc23/eng/20221221

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050271

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050272

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  a_prh_6.0_143817181_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Zülfü Livaneli

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Passion For Hemingway

  Introducing Hemingway to Hannibal

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for.

  ERNEST HEMINGWAY, The Old Man and the Sea

  A PASSION FOR HEMINGWAY

  I ’m sure I had toys when I was a child, but I don’t remember any of them. I suppose I didn’t have much interest in toys. However, when I was in primary school in the ancient city of Amasya, where my father was serving as prosecutor, I subscribed to three magazines: Children’s Nest, Pecos Bill, and Köroğlu. It gave me such a nice feeling to have these three magazines delivered to the house in my name. I would bury myself in the pages of the magazines, spending hours in what for me was a sea of pleasure. My head would spin from the savor of those magazines. I was also a fan of the adventures of Sadık Demir in a comic strip in the newspaper that was delivered to our house every day. I later learned that this was a translation of the American comic strip Oaky Doaks, by R. B. Fuller.

  Years later, when I was in middle school in Ankara, my passion for books became excessive. I read whatever I could get my hands on, but I was particularly taken by the American novelists Ernest Hemingway, Jack London, Erskine Caldwell, and John Steinbeck. (When I was a little older they would be joined by William Faulkner.) The walls of my bedroom were covered with pictures of Hemingway. Every Saturday I would go to the American library, secretly cut out articles about Hemingway from magazines like Life, bring them home, and file them. On my desk there were copies of Hemingway’s novels in the ori
ginal English and in Turkish translation. I read every line of every biography written about him, including the one by his brother, Leicester. Hemingway gave me a sense of freedom. I wanted to live the endless future before me as he had lived. I knew deep down that I was not going to live an ordinary life like everyone else. My passion for Hemingway led me to some crazy experiences. But first I have to talk about the secret temple of books I created in my room.

  At first my parents were pleased that I read so much, but later, when it got out of control, it began to bother them. I even remember my mother tearing up one of my books. I was doing badly in school; I couldn’t get up in the morning. What I considered my real life took place at night, when I was alone with my books. Most of my friends would go to the coffeehouse to play cards or backgammon. I’d never even been to a coffeehouse, and I never learned to play backgammon, pool, or cards.

  In the end my father had to forbid me to read books. Every night, after everyone had gone to bed, he would come to check if any light was streaming through the frosted-glass panel in my door. If he saw light, he would immediately come in and tell me to go to sleep—if not, he would walk away quietly. For several nights I was unable to read, I just tossed and turned in bed. Then I found a solution. I realized that I could fit under the bed, and that the bedcovers reached to the floor; if I tucked them in carefully, I would be completely concealed. I spread a blanket on the stone floor. And the little lamp I plugged in provided plenty of light. I checked several times from outside, and no light leaked out. From then on I enjoyed my nights immensely. I brought in a pile of books and a plate of fruit, and explored paradise until morning. When either of my parents passed the door, they thought I’d finally got over reading too much and that I was sound asleep.

  The intensive reading I did at such a young age brought benefits. When I did an adaption for radio of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls it was of great help in learning to write dialogue. When the Milliyet newspaper held a writing contest, I visited several juvenile detention centers and wrote a piece called “Child Offenders.” Under Hemingway’s influence, I wrote a novel about the life of a bullfighter named Amarillo. I’m sure it was terrible, but as a cocky fifteen-year-old I’d written my first book.

  I’d had a cyst behind my ear for as long as I could remember. It pushed my ear forward and was visible in all my childhood photographs. They gave me no anesthesia, and it took them fifty minutes to scrape out the cyst. Because it was so close to my ear, the scraping sound was unnervingly loud. As if the operation was being broadcast over speakers. But I was completely at ease, because two days earlier I’d read about how the knight Pardaillan hadn’t flinched when he received a sword wound. But Hemingway was my real inspiration. If he had withstood so much pain, I was going to bear this in silence. After the operation, the doctor looked at me in amazement and said, “Bravo, what a brave boy you are!” He had no idea that books could serve as an anesthetic.

  I read all of Hemingway’s books many times, but The Old Man and the Sea, which I knew almost by heart, had a special place for me. I felt as if I knew Santiago, who was “salao, which is the worst form of unlucky.” I could feel the salt of the Caribbean on my skin. I could taste the sour flavor of herring.

  When I saw the Caribbean for the first time at the age of forty-four, I felt as if I knew it, as if it had been part of my childhood.

  There was a vast difference between the enchanting world of Hemingway and my monotonous life in Ankara. I moved back and forth between my house and my school, and life seemed dull and meaningless. School was incredibly boring.

  INTRODUCING HEMINGWAY TO HANNIBAL

  As the end of the school year approaches, the weight of bad grades and boredom becomes like a mountain sitting on your chest. Depressed and discouraged, there’s nothing to do but simply wait for summer to begin. The monotonous and depressing days follow each other relentlessly, and you don’t know what to do.

  The smell of spring in the air stirs the blood. Youthful nights are marked by the heady scent of the acacia trees. Nature is in ferment, seeds are sprouting and sap is flowing, and all you can do is sit in your room reading a book and watching flies come in through the window. And if, like me, you’ve failed seven subjects, life seems like a ball of interwoven problems from which you can never extricate yourself.

  When I got my report card and saw just how bad it was, I did something I’d never done before: I went to a soccer game. I don’t know if this was a reaction or if I was trying to escape. Ankaragücü was playing a team called Amerigo. The foreign team toyed with Ankaragücü like a cat playing with a mouse. The final score was 7-0.

  When I encountered the unfortunate number seven again, it seemed more than a coincidence. I went home and got a couple of books and some other things. I put what little money I’d saved from my allowance in my pocket and left the house. It was almost dark when I reached the bus terminal. I was able to find a seat at the very back of the Istanbul bus. A friend of mine had told me good things about two coastal towns called Eskihisar and Darıca. Especially after The Old Man and the Sea, I could think of nothing but fishing, the sea, and adventure.

  Toward morning I got off the bus at a gas station on the Ankara-Istanbul highway. It was dark; all I could see was the gas station and two roadside coffeehouses. I went into one of them and drank tea with the bus drivers and passengers. I asked the waiter, who was about my age, about Eskihisar. He pointed behind the coffeehouse and said there was a road down to the sea through the woods. It was five kilometers.

  “The forest wardens will be here soon,” he said. “I’ll send you down with them.”

  The forest wardens arrived just as dawn was breaking, and we set off after they’d finished their tea. We descended though a dense, healthy pine forest. I answered their questions by telling them I was a student who wanted to go camping. I wasn’t going to tell them I’d confused myself by reading too many books.

  After a difficult trek, we reached the small fishing village of Eskihisar (“old castle”) near Hannibal’s tomb. Thousands of years ago this had been Libyssa in the kingdom of Bithynia. I’d read that the Carthaginian general Hannibal committed suicide here, and had been buried here according to his wishes. I sat by his tomb and read The Old Man and the Sea aloud. I felt as if I was introducing Hannibal and Hemingway. Eskihisar reminded me of that fishing village in the Caribbean. I felt as if I’d entered Hemingway’s novel, as if I’d found the place I would live for the rest of my life.

  There was a nice coffeehouse under the large plane tree at the entrance to the village. It was run by a man named Hasan. I told him I was a student from Ankara on vacation. The ancient Anatolian tradition of helping strangers, a tradition that would save my life many times over the years, was immediately put into practice. Everyone tried to help me because I was a guest from God. Hasan put out the word, then told me I could stay with an old woman who lived on the hill. He pointed to her house. It was apart from the other houses of the village, a dilapidated wooden house standing alone at the top of the hill.

  I immediately went down to the beach, found a secluded spot, and read Hemingway until evening, enjoying the sea and my freedom. In the evening I ate fresh fried fish at Hasan’s place. My back and shoulders were sunburned but I felt good.

  It was late when I set out for the house where I was going to stay. I started climbing the hill. I passed the edge of the village. As I walked by moonlight toward the spooky-looking house, I suddenly found myself in a graveyard. I felt as if I’d moved from an adventure movie to a horror movie. I had goosebumps by the time I reached the wooden house. The door was open and I went in. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. The floorboards creaked under my feet as I called out to ask if anyone was home. I heard a moan from the back of the house and moved in that direction. I entered a room, and in the moonlight streaming in through the window I saw a strange-looking old woman, who I later learned was bedridden. She looked at me without saying anything, occasionally letting out a moan. I went up to the top floor, lay on the first bed I found, and slept an uneasy sleep punctuated by nightmares.

  I left the house at first light and told Hasan I wasn’t going to be able to stay in that house. I also said that I wanted to work, and to learn about fishing. Hasan spoke to a fisherman and found me a job. I was going to work for a man known as Sergeant. I would gather nets, clean the boat, and help with the fishing. I began work eagerly, and later Sergeant told me I could sleep in the boat.