“Yes, you’re a donkey, you’re even more of a donkey than the donkey in our stable. And…and you’re stupid.”

  Why was the boy so angry?

  “Yes, I’m a donkey,” Mustafa said calmly. “But this donkey needs to go home now. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “No!”

  “Why not, Ömer? Do you have a problem?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What is it, go ahead, tell me.”

  Mustafa saw that the boy was on the verge of tears. It must have been something serious. He felt bad and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me. Aren’t you ashamed of leaving Mesude?”

  Mustafa was astounded. The boy continued. “You’re a donkey for leaving Mesude! Do you understand, you’re a donkey.”

  He knew Ömer was very fond of Mesude. Whenever he came to the house, she would give him the cola and chips she bought specially for him. Ömer would look at her in gratitude and smile. Once he’d impulsively kissed her on the cheek. The boy’s an angel, Mesude used to say, a real angel. The whole village loved the boy, but Mesude’s affection was different.

  Ömer stared at him with a deep frown. Mustafa took him seriously for the first time.

  “I didn’t leave her, Ömer. She’s the one who decided to go. She left me.”

  “Who knows what you did to her.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You did, you must have done something to Mesude.”

  “Why would I do anything to her?”

  “Because you’re a donkey!” shouted the boy, and then he ran off. He seemed to be crying.

  As Mustafa made his way home, he thought, The boy’s right, I’m a donkey. He must have heard people talking about the separation. He’s the only one in the village who said anything to my face. The boy’s right.

  Mesude’s grandmother’s fairy tales were famous throughout the village, and indeed even in neighboring villages. On winter evenings when the men went to the coffeehouse, the women and children would gather around the olive wood fire, sip sage tea, and listen to stories about giants, princesses, people transformed into animals, animals transformed into humans, sultans whose touch turned everything into gold, and treacherous viziers. They couldn’t get enough of the story of how, on a night when the full moon was shining like mother of pearl, the Prophet raised his index finger and split the moon in two. The old women would shout, God is great, and begin crying. They couldn’t quite explain to the younger women why they cried. Perhaps it was the melancholy of being closer to death, perhaps a feeling of terror, of fear.

  Some of her grandmother’s stories were about Hārūn ar-Rashīd, and some were from Solomon. Mesude’s favorite was the story of the child who was abandoned by his mother the queen and raised by a servant.

  A kingdom faces rebellion. The queen flees with her husband, leaving behind her baby. The baby’s caretaker can’t bear to leave him behind, so she takes him and raises him on her own. Years later the queen returns and wants her child back. The caretaker refuses. After all, she’s the one who rescued the baby and struggled to raise him, and she regards him as her own child.

  When they go before King Solomon, he says, “Draw a circle on the floor. His mother will pull one arm and his stepmother will pull the other arm. I’ll give the child to whoever manages to pull him out of the circle.”

  They do as Solomon tells them. They each seize an arm and begin pulling. But when the stepmother sees that this is hurting the child, she lets go. She can’t bear to hurt him. She says she would rather the queen have him than see him torn apart. The queen is happy that she pulled the child out of the circle, but Solomon says, “The child belongs to the stepmother. She was more protective of him than his real mother. She was afraid he would be hurt. Because she raised him, kept him alive. She is now his real mother.”

  In fact it had no resemblance to her own real story—the poor migrant woman didn’t leave the baby behind and flee—but she identified with the stepmother in the story. She and Mustafa had rescued the baby and made the effort to bring him back to life.

  The moment she thought of Mustafa, she said, “Damn him.” She couldn’t get over her anger. Not only had he insulted her womanhood, he’d raised his hand to her. How could she forget that? She couldn’t remember a moment when her honor had been more wounded. He went crazy, she told her mother, I think Mustafa definitely lost his mind. He would never do anything like that to me, but the baby unbalanced him. Anyway, he can go to hell. Mesude wanted a divorce. Her mother did her best to get her to change her mind, but then she gave up and began to support the idea of divorce. There’s another fate for the most beautiful divorcée in the village, she said, but Mesude had nothing like that in mind. You didn’t marry again and neither will I. She always stood behind her decisions. She was much stronger than Mustafa.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t still have feelings, but she wouldn’t allow her heart to soften. She was resolute.

  * * *

  ————

  One afternoon she was hanging laundry in the garden. Ever since childhood, the smell of laundry that had dried in the sun made her happy. As she was hanging the laundry, an official black car pulled up in front of the garden gate. A man and a woman, both of them civil servants, entered the garden, asked her name and surname, checked her identity card, and said they would like to have a word with her. Mesude was alarmed. At first she thought it was something to do with the court or the prosecutor, or with Mustafa. Had he filed for divorce? This was the first time she’d had government officials at her house. Or had something happened to Mustafa? Were they bringing her bad news? Suddenly she felt terrified. Mustafa, she thought, my Mustafa, oh my Mustafa.

  The officials said they were from the Muğla Migration Administration Unit. Mesude and her mother welcomed them in. As he was entering, the young man patted the basil plant and smiled, the rich smell of basil wafting through the air.

  While her mother went in to make coffee, the officials explained the situation to Mesude.

  The illegal migrants—they used the term “irregular migrants”—Zilha Sherif and her child Samir were being held in a Migration Administration shelter in Ula. Mesude realized they weren’t bringing her bad news about Mustafa. At first she felt relieved, but then her heart began to beat even faster. The officials began telling her that three days ago the migrant woman had approached them through a lawyer with a request. Mesude was beside herself with excitement. Her heart was beating so loudly it was drowning out the man’s voice; she couldn’t hear him properly. At the same time she kept turning to look toward the kitchen. She didn’t want her mother to hear what they were telling her. She didn’t want anyone to know. She didn’t want anyone to hear about it. At least not for a while. She wanted to think and fully grasp what they’d said before she talked to anyone about it.

  When Raziye Hanım came in with the coffee, they’d finished telling her what they’d come to say, and they’d begun conversing about the village. Mesude could barely hear them. What’s happening, she kept asking herself, what’s happening? Bright sunlight reflected from the window was blinding her, clouding her mind, and the smell of basil had become stronger. Are we a family, she wondered, are we a family? Then when she saw her mother and the guests looking at her strangely, she realized she’d spoken these words aloud. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that, I’m…surprised and confused.” Then she rubbed her eyes with her fists to keep the tears from flowing out.

  After the guests left, she had to spend quite some time dealing with her mother. The poor woman was trying to understand what was going on, but her daughter wasn’t giving her any explanation. “It’s nothing, they just came to give me some information,” was all she said. As Mesude tried to fend off her mother’s questions, she kept asking herself the same question: Are we a family, are we a family? She felt on the verge of fainting.

  She also felt as if she were imagining the whole scene. She could hear her mother’s voice saying “Mesude, what happened, you’re scaring me.” Then she felt a coolness on her temples and wrists, and the smell of cologne wafted to her. Her mother was rubbing her wrists. Pull yourself together, you say they didn’t tell you anything important, so why are you in such a state? While Raziye was making coffee, she’d heard the names Zilha and Samir but hadn’t been able to understand anything else. And the officials hadn’t seemed as if they were bringing bad news. Or were they so accustomed to giving people bad news that they’d developed an indifferent attitude?

  “Mother,” Mesude heard herself saying, “I’m not feeling well …” She couldn’t move. Her mother hurriedly opened windows to let in fresh air. She heard the tap running in the kitchen, and then her mother put a glass to her lips. She took sips of the cool well water. The smells of basil and cologne battled with each other. Both smells nauseated her, and so did the sun. As she stretched herself out on the sofa, the distress, sorrow, pain, and fear of the past months seemed to form into a ball that was stuck in her throat. A series of brief images kept flashing through her mind: Mustafa, the police, the neighbors, Mustafa, the hospital, the prosecutor, Mustafa again, the jail, the fight, Mustafa’s raised hand. The willpower that had kept her on her feet and her emotions at bay seemed to crumble, and she was aware that tears were pouring from her eyes.

  At about three in the morning the sea was calm and the village was asleep. Four young fishermen silently rowed Çiroz’s boat away from the shore. In order to avoid drawing suspicion to themselves and to the village, they’d decided not to sabotage the huge fish farm near the village but a smaller farm further away. Their sharp knives and saws were ready. As they moved through the water on that moonless night, they felt as if they were embarking on a great adventure. Even Mustafa felt as if there was a new excitement in his life. He’d done a few dives and seen the state the poor fish were in. The fry were poured into the pools from tanks. They were only a millimeter long, and a million of them weighed less than a kilo. The farm owners filled the cages with sea bass and sea bream fry. When the fish grew there was no room for them to move: the ones on the bottom were crushed, and the fish were sickened by parasites and microbes. He’d even seen blind fish. They stretched nets over these cages. Birds who dove to catch fish got caught in these nets, and their necks would break as they struggled to free themselves. As Mustafa thought about this, he remembered the puffer fish he’d crushed. But those fish were monsters. They needed to be destroyed. Nevertheless, he was still ashamed of what he’d done. He’d been out of his mind.

  Mustafa was silent the whole way. Indeed, no one spoke, or even smoked a cigarette. He just stared into the dark water and thought dark thoughts. Did the attitude Mesude took toward him that day mean that they’d reached the point of no return? How could that possibly be? What had happened to them for things to end up like this? He wished he’d gone and sat with her. What could she have done? When everyone was leaving I could have taken her by the hand and brought her home, he thought. She wouldn’t have refused to come. Or would she have? What would have happened if she’d freed her hand and gone with her mother? And in front of the entire village? For a moment he supposed it might be because of her mother, that she was brainwashing her daughter. Was that why she’d treated him like a stranger?

  He knew he’d behaved badly—he’d long since regretted what he’d done. But confessing this was difficult for him. Husbands and wives have fights sometimes. There was no need to blow things out of proportion.

  Then he felt guilty when he remembered that he’d said harsh things about her womanhood and her personality and that he’d raised his hand to her. He wouldn’t have hit her, of course he wouldn’t have; he would never hurt her, it was just that he was so angry. In fact he’d restrained himself to a degree he would never have for anyone else. If it had been anyone but Mesude, he wouldn’t have held himself back.

  Thinking about these things and making excuses for himself didn’t change anything. He’d lost his wife because he wanted a child, and he felt a searing regret. He reached down and put his hand in the sea. The dark water was lukewarm. He thought the sea would remain warm until November. Then he remembered how his son had trailed his hand in the water that day. “Look, Father, look. Look at how beautiful it is.” He pulled his hand out of the water as if he’d touched fire.

  These fish farms had sleeping quarters and armed guards. About half an hour later, when they reached the fish farm, the lights in the sleeping quarters were out. It was clear that the watchmen were sleeping. In any event, the worst that ever happened was minor theft. They approached the nets silently in the dark. Mustafa slid into the water without a sound, almost without leaving even a ripple. Despite the pitch darkness he didn’t light a lamp. He was going to feel around for the net. As he dove, he sensed that there were huge schools of fish around him. Fish were touching his hands and arms and legs. As if he were a large fish. Schools of mullet and sardines would swim to the cages. They were attracted by the feed. Once he’d gone deep enough, he swam toward the net; soon his hand touched it. He pulled out the large, sharp knife he’d strapped to his leg. He began cutting the net with it. They’d chosen a sea bass farm. The sea bream farms had thicker nets because the fish tried to chew their way out. He struggled to cut a few large openings. He felt that there were fish surging out of these openings. There were now more fish around him. Then the fish began pouring out. He had probably cut enough openings, but he swam to the left to cut more. From time to time he rose silently to the surface to fill his lungs. He finally decided he’d cut enough holes. There was now a storm of fish around him, and they were dragging him. He didn’t know where they were dragging him, under the sea. It was no longer possible for him to approach the net. He couldn’t swim against such a powerful storm.

  He rose to the surface. He’d stayed under a long time and was beginning to get dizzy. He tried to breathe silently in the darkness, but he had to take a large gasp and fill his lungs. Little by little he calmed down, and his breathing became regular. He looked around for the boat, but he couldn’t see it in the darkness. After a while, though, it began to seem as if finding the boat would be impossible. He didn’t know which side of the cage it was on, or how close it was. He cooed softly like a dove, hoping he wouldn’t wake the guards. A little later he felt a tremendous relief when he heard the swish of oars and Çiroz whispering. Mustafa, Mustafa. They pulled him into the boat and rowed away before anyone heard them. They’d brought down one of the fish farms.

  The hot linden tea her mother made for her calmed Mesude’s nerves enough for her to drift into a deep sleep. Her dreamless sleep was so deep that she wasn’t even aware of her mother coming in and out of the room. In the morning she woke to the light coming in through the window and the sounds of the sparrows and pigeons. She’d recovered from her crisis of the previous day, but she felt a bit tired. And she still felt as if she were in a dream. Or was it a nightmare?

  She and her mother had breakfast in silence. Later, when they were drinking coffee on the porch in the shade of the pink bougainvillea, she said, “Mother, we have to talk. We have to decide what to do.”

  * * *

  ————

  Yes, I hope so, I have no idea what’s going on.” Mesude gave her mother an understanding smile. She felt better, as if she’d been able to pull her thoughts together. She decided to delay the conversation a little.

  Mesude always weighed everything carefully, working out the variables, and was always confident of her decisions. It wasn’t easy for two fish to find each other in the vast sea. She’d found Mustafa and married him, and they’d shared good times and bad. Was she going to throw this away because of a moment of anger? Until that terrible, disastrous day he’d never even frowned at her. When they took Deniz for a stroll on the shore in the evening, Mesude used to feel as if the whole village envied them. When they were teaching Deniz to swim, they would play around with him, splashing water on each other to make him laugh, and they changed the lyrics of a popular song to “we got wet in this sea together.”

  The next morning Mesude said to her mother, “I’m going home, Mother. Mustafa hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days. I’m going to cook something, and then I’ll give the house a good cleaning.”

  Her mother wasn’t at all surprised. It was as if she’d known what she was going to say. “As you wish, dear.”

  Mesude left the house and strode through the garden so briskly that the chickens barely managed to get out of her way in time. As autumn approached, the weather was getting softer, the sun was rising in a cloudless sky, and the whitewashed houses of the village were reflected on the surface of the sea. As she walked toward the house she thought, Mustafa could be anywhere now. When she got home she was going to call him and say Bring home a nice fish, boy, as she used to do in the days when they joked with each other. Don’t you dare be late. That was all she was going to say. Then she would hang up, as if it were an ordinary day, as if nothing had happened. She was good at reeling in fish, she knew when to let the line out and when to pull it in. She pictured the befuddled expression that appeared on Mustafa’s face when there was a situation he didn’t quite understand. She couldn’t help laughing. She clutched the folder carefully to her chest, as if the baby was in it.

  The next morning Mustafa, Çiroz, Yusuf, and the Stutterer huddled together. Someone was looking into the incident at the fish farm, and sooner or later they were going to come to the village. “Whatever happens, don’t involve me, don’t mention my name, I wasn’t there. It’s not because of the penalty, there’s a much more important reason. This is a matter of life and death, it’s that important. Yesterday I didn’t care, it didn’t matter to me what happened, but some things have changed, I’d be ruined, do you understand me? I’d be ruined.”