KEMAL AND HüSNü collapse onto the cushion along the back wall of the khan, their wearied bodies colliding at the shoulders. They have been dreaming of this khan since the border town of Gaziantep where a goat herder poured encouraging words into their desperate ears. He promised they would find warm food and, for the right price, the soothing embrace of a woman’s arms. This last vision alone was responsible for Hüsnü’s unyielding pace in the past two days.
Hüsnü does not hesitate to pull his tattered boots from his feet, dropping them to the floor like stones. This act alone is a luxury. As soldiers, they almost always kept their boots on, in defense against cold and theft. But Kemal stays as still as possible, his eyes fixed upon the officer seated at the back of the room. For a moment, he is Eagle Eye again, scoping out danger. Even in the dim light, he can make out the officer’s starched uniform and pomaded mustache. The man sits erect with only his head bent slightly before a steaming bowl of broth. He lifts the bowl to his lips and buries his mustache in the warm liquid. It has been weeks since Kemal has had something warm dance upon his tongue and years since he’s seen a creased uniform. Suddenly he is acutely aware of the stench of his body, his torn trousers and the abhorrent condition of his boots. The coarse hair of his beard itches with lice.
A portly woman, her thick hair loose beneath the head scarf, comes toward them.
“Merhaba. What’s your pleasure?”
Hüsnü’s face lights up, but Kemal keeps his eyes upon the officer and his soup. The man’s gray temples flinch at the sound of the woman’s voice.
“?orba, if you have it,” says Hüsnü, flashing his best smile.
The woman nods and disappears behind a small wooden door in the far corner of the room.
“God, I hope the rumors are true,” says Hüsnü. “Did you see how round her back side was? Like two watermelons cooling in a brook.”
Kemal can sense the old officer listening. “Not now,” he whispers.
“Not now?” exclaims Hüsnü, loud enough that the stable boy might hear. “Then when? When I’m dead?”
The portly one comes back, balancing a pair of bowls on a large rusty tray.
“I like women. Is that a crime?” Hüsnü’s voice is jovial. He is asking Kemal but looking at the woman. “But my friend here, he’s like a cleric.” He clamps a hand down on Kemal’s shoulder.
“Maybe he likes boys,” says the woman, raising an eyebrow. “Or goats.”
The officer with the starched uniform clears his throat.
Kemal feels his face reddening. “We need a room for a night or two,” he says, ignoring her.
The woman nods. “You can stay as long as your pockets allow. My name is Fatma and the boy outside is named Ahmet.”
“We have no use for the boy,” Kemal blurts out. “Just the room.”
“I wouldn’t give him to you anyway. The boy is for fetching water and taking care of animals.”
“No one said anything about wanting a boy,” Kemal says, exasperated.
“Easy, friend,” says Hüsnü. “The hanim here is simply clarifying things. Aren’t you, Fatma dear?”
At this, the starched officer heaves himself off of his cushion, leaving his empty bowl on the floor where his feet once were. He takes careful measured steps toward the two friends.
“You boys have papers?” he asks, looking down at them.
Hüsnü stands up. Reaching in his breast pocket, he produces the corrugated piece of parchment with their signed release.
The officer’s eyes scan the page and rest upon the seal at the very bottom. “I’ll take this for now,” he says. “If everything checks out, I’ll return it to you by sundown tomorrow.”
“But, sir, the war is over,” Hüsnü begins to protest. “We’ve served the better part of three years in the army and have been lawfully dismissed.”
“You have an objection?” the officer asks, the question more of a dare.
“No, not at all,” says Hüsnü, suddenly cowed. They’ve been through this before. Every village has an a?a, or chieftain, intent upon demonstrating his power. This bey is no different.
“All my friend wants to know is, whom do we have the honor of waiting upon tomorrow?” Kemal asks.
“It is not your place to ask questions, soldier. That privilege is all mine.” The officer leaves them sitting before their now-lukewarm porridge.
“Oh, don’t look so forlorn,” says Fatma Hanim. “That is Nabi Bey, the governor, and he is more or less harmless. He’s leaving for Sivas soon anyway. Eat your soup,” she says, turning her backside to them.
“What about the room?” asks Kemal.
“And the . . . company?” asks Hüsnü.