Nedim Gürsel: The Conqueror

Watch Nedim Gürsel reading at 21. Prague Writers' Festival here.

Now while he looks over the shores of the Bosphorus, he thinks of the sea. Instead of thinking of getting married and having children, having another job in Venice, or realizing that there is no more time to live ahead, his thoughts return to the red mouth of Nefeli, her sharp teeth, and firm breasts. He smiles with the idea that the sea will again take him to the woman who is the most passionate and generous of all women.

He had met Nefeli on the way to Trabzon, in a cellar in which somehow there was no smell of wine. They had quickly agreed on the price of one ducat, and in a narrow room on a street near the dock, overlooking the small square next to the stone wall of Christ's Tower, they made love until dawn. Obviously, Nefeli had also enjoyed the night. Otherwise, she would never let her customer pay just one ducat and stay with her until the morning. It was not as she always does, making love cursorily, leaving him in the muddy street among the barking dogs. Antonio smiles with the joyful pride of a man who tempts a whore from making love with more than one man in a day. He would find Nefeli again tonight where he left her before leaving for Trabzon. This time he would make love with her without paying money, and, although contemplating being away from each other for a long time, they would enjoy themselves. And he would fall madly in love with Nefeli. He knows that she does not sell her soul as a righteous woman, never gives her soul to a man having her body. He would never forget her moan, and then her embracing him with the words "my darling, my darling" and then suddenly raking his back and crying out, "My wild bull of Venice!" How happy he was as he had slipped himself into the flow of life like a rambling and fleeting ship. He had blown about from one woman to the other. He always followed the most dangerous adventures, the most beautiful woman and fabrics. It was his lot to eat the hottest spices and to drink pungent wines. But every morning he had always been able to make himself free from the dirt of the night and weariness of the revelry. And every time he had embraced women with a greater pleasure than ever before. Each time he had felt an immense thirst when he took the cup of wine to his mouth. It was a kind of thirst seeking for the whiteness of Nefeli, her body taking him inside, entwining him, and the more he drinks, the more he thirsts for more. How could he have known that it would be so difficult to forget her, known that the dark-haired woman of Byzantium was unlike any other woman; even if they had met again, he would fall in love with her, and her hair would remain untidy in bed, her legs stretching out during her orgasm, her resistance like a rebellious river, and her naked body, especially that. And now, while he. was watching the Bosphorus and sitting on a box in front of the captain's room, he had no doubt that, one day, her arms would embrace him like the insuperable walls surrounding Constantinople. After a month, when they reunited again, his life would change as well. And they never would leave each other again.

This vessel of Venice, with the flags of the San Marco Republic decorated with the figures of lion, sailed from the Bosphorus to the Sea of Marmara with the help of the current behind it. Now, having rounded a spit of land, Captain Antonio's good luck also changed. Antonio was suddenly startled like someone waking up from a bad dream. He stared at the towers appearing suddenly in front of him. First, he could not believe his eyes. It had not been such a long time that he had sailed on the Black Sea. At that time there was only a demolished church with its garden covered with weedy grass on this side. The trees had blossomed, and spring had returned. The sunlight was playing on the water in front of the castle at the other shore, and on the barrels of the cannons, rusty because of disuse. The sun illuminated the guns of the defense that protected the dock, the cormorants diving into the sea and emerging, and the white wings of the seagulls turning around the mast with screeches. Everything was peace and harmony. All of them, the castle, guards, sea, and seagulls, were nicely wrapped within the softness of spring.

Looking up at the hills of the left shore, beautifully ornamented with flowers, he thought that if one day war would break out with the Turks, the Bosphorus could never be closed for sea traffic; even if it could be closed, the commercial vessels of Venice would continue to sail as they had in the past-and this thought made him very comfortable. Frankly, peace was so nice. The Venetian Captain was not afraid of either dangerous pirates or wild storms. But war was different. At war, people were dying, ships were sinking, cities and castles were being burnt and destroyed, women were being raped, and babies were being slaughtered and blood was flowing in streams. Perhaps it was possible to find one who enjoyed killing people and accepted this senseless killing as a great virtue; perhaps war was a necessity, fighting a question of honor, even an art. But it was not natural. In Antonio's eyes, the only thing that was natural was the foam of the waves, the taste of women and wine, and friendship of the people. Of course, people had come into the world to enjoy living, not to kill each other. And now, on a November day, as the Cut-Throat appeared in his way like a dragon blocking the passage, this was not a good sign.

He suddenly rushed out of his captain's perch and warned the sailor tending the rudder. There was a flurry and rush around the ship. The crew kept on rowing, and the master sailors pulled on the ropes. An­tonio's bellowing voice ordering all sails hoisted was drowned out by the incredible thunder of cannonballs. Sailors on the deck looked on with terror. They had never seen such a big and fastmoving projectile. In the next instant they were sopping wet. The cannonball had landed next to the ship, the port side of it, after flying over the mast. Antonio realized that it was not a joke. Anticipating a second firing, he took over the rudder. They had to escape this serious misfortune and reach Galata as soon as possible. Not just because they had to deliver the goods for the Emperor's army, but in order to not be caught by Turks. Luckily, wind and current were on their side. Not just wind and current but God too. God and Mother Mary-both were on their side. Suddenly, he felt God, whose name he never mentioned even in difficult times, with him, even beyond this-inside his soul. It was such a trembling and shuddering coming from God. It was not the sea cracking and splitting, not the sky thundering, but a deep look into the golden mosaic of the San Marco Basilica. He remembered the words of Nefeli: "You Romans are worse than Turks. Neither your beliefs nor your traditions are the same as ours. Your views on Christ are also odd." He had said to Nefeli that he had no time to give God, and asked her to take the icon of the Virgin from her bedside. Now he feels contrite for his blasphemous reaction to the icon. But then he immediately comes to himself again. In order to encourage the crew, rowing with great effort, he shouts, "Come on my lions; if we reach Galata, there will be a feast for you." But, just as he says the word "feast," the second cannonball hits the center of the ship. As the center mast comes down like a tree struck by lightning, with difficulty and distress, he jumps overboard into the sea from the captain's perch.

Guards fished Antonio Rizzo from the water, along with the ship's secretary, Niccolo, the only son of Domenico di Maestri, and fifteen crewmen, delivering them to the commander Firuz Aga. And following the order of the Sultan, all were sent to Edirne. As they were taken to the court of the Sultan, all were hungry and tired, but throughout the journey, all the way to Edirne, they nurtured a glimmer of hope, giving their souls warmth. If they had not been killed by the Turks right away, then maybe their lives were not in danger. Moreover, they had hope that perhaps the Embassy of Venice in Constantinople in the person of officer Fabrizio Corner would send a messenger to the Edirne Palace reminding them that they were under protection of the Venetian Republic, which was the most powerful state in the eastern Mediterranean; that made them comfortable. But having seen the terrible anger in the Sultan's look, Captain Antonio realized that it was the end of the road. He had heard that Mehmed was a young and passionate Sultan, but he never thought that he would have such a deep, uncontrolled anger coursing though him. In front of him, it appeared, was not the head of the Ottoman Empire but a wild panther ready to attack its prey, or a falcon, from whose claws he could not escape.

The Sultan looked at the chained slaves, and while Antonio's pale face changed colors, the Sultan's gaze stopped on him. He wanted him to come near. Antonio hesitated for a while. He looked at Mehmed's face, which became quite red with rage. His lips were trembling and his eyes were shining brightly under his white turban. Like a snorting bull, the Sultan charged, "Were the goods in your ship for the army of Constan-tine?" The Captain lowered his head, indicating yes. And he never looked at the Sultan's face again. If he had looked at his face, he would have been able to see that he was calm and there was a smile on his mouth, under the tip of his arched nose. While he was separated from the others and taken away with a shove, he looked behind and saw that Niccolo was being freed from his chains, and Mehmed was showing special interest and stroking the head of the prostrate secretary. He bemoaned that he was not as young as Niccolo, this beardless youth. But, quickly, he erased this tasteless thought from his mind. He left the court, passing through the guards with pride. On the same day, they took Antonio to Dimetoka with the Sultan. When they arrived in the city, he learned that Fabrizio had come earlier than them and asked to meet with the Sultan. And he smiled, thinking that he saved his life from the hands of the Angel of Death once again.

The following morning, two Janissaries took Antonio from the tent where he was jailed and brought him to the Sultan's tent. They unfastened his chains. One of the Janissaries with a big, drooping, curved moustache handed him over to the commander of the Imperial Guards. The soldier took him to the bodyguard who was standing immobile like a stick next to him. The gypsy told the commander of the Imperial Guards' men to place the Captain lying face down, and then pulled a rope out of his pocket and tied up his hands. As Antonio was lying helpless, something stirred in the camp. The soldiers began to laugh loudly and make jokes. Soon after, he saw that a Janissary was approaching with an extremely long stake resembling a lance. At the top of the stake was a greased iron point with a semicircular wooden collar in the middle. The gypsy tore off Antonio's wrinkled and creased pants and nimbly unfastened the buttons of his brilliant blue shirt and put it on himself. The silk shirt was too big for him. He rolled up its sleeves and rucked the shirt inside his pants; he smiled and yawned, showing his toothless mouth. Now he could start his job. Antonio was lying down on his stomach with his pants torn from the back, exposing his backside, and all sorts of bad things were passing through his mind. He still could not understand what they were planning for him. He had never thought of death. But suddenly it became clear to him that he would die-soon. He again met the face of God. This time, not from the mosaics of Basilica San Marco, but now God was looking from the small Byzantium church which he frequently passed as he was walking along the walls in his evening strolls out from Blachernae Palace. In this depiction, Christ held his hands open on both sides of himself. The Virgin Mary was on his right, Saint John on his left. His eyes were merciless. A river of fire flowed from his toe, along which the damned were dragged towards hell. Strangely, the angel with blue wings who rolls up and folds the sky with the sun and moon was not in her usual place. The men in the river of fire were all stark naked, and they carried heavy chains around their necks. And the fire that burned and wounded their bodies was unique in all the world.

He wanted to cross himself, but he remembered that his hands were tied. While he turned his face back, trying to say his last wish to the gypsy and to get his hands loosened, the Commander of the Imperial Guards drove the stake into his anus. At that moment, he was confused about what it was. He put his face, crumpled with pain, to the ground and started crying to God to take his soul as soon as possible. As the gypsy drove the stake with another hammer blow into his body, he felt he would choke on this intensive and indescribable pain. Taking care of the internal organs and checking the direction of the iron stake, the gypsy struck the third blow. Antonio lost control of himself; the sweat poured from his forehead in streams, softening the frozen earth that had been so solid in the early morning. He does not remember the sequel.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself, like a fly, sitting on a stake extended through his body and coming out from his right shoulder. Half-conscious, he hung there, at the level of a lance and slightly bent forward, with the point of the stake driven into the ground. At first he felt a terrible thirst. As soon as the fog in his eyes disappeared, he saw that the tents had been taken away and nobody was around. At the edge of the road leading to Constantinople, under the blue sky, he was alone. Nobody passed along the road, neither on foot nor on horseback. It was nearly dark. Before him, the poplars were rustling from the edge of the planted fields. Antonio thought that the peace was over and now the harvest would no longer be feasible in the immense land of Thrace; the cannonballs that sank his ship would soon start to strike the walls of Byzantium. His body was now numb, and his hands and feet started to become cold. For some reason, he didn't feel too much pain. It seemed that the stake was part of his body, even if a physical peculiarity; before long, it would be a difference he could accept. Life was so close that he could touch it: the land, the poplar trees, the wind and the sun. Everything had its own color, its own reality.

Suddenly he was gripped with a longing for the sea. He imagined himself entering the port of Galata with his ship.

They had lowered the sails and approached the dock. The city-with its palaces, roads with columns, and domes gleaming under the sun-was like a new bride shining brilliantly in front of him. From the distance, he saw Nefeli coming to him with the purity of a virgin. She carried a golden ring in her hands and whispered to him, "I know that you are married to the sea; but I put the ring you threw into the water on my finger."

Now he was in Venice and looking at the city through the bulwarks of the ship Bucentaur, which was covered with gold. They moved alongside the Doge's Palace after passing through Giudecca Channel. The streets had been filled with dissolute crowds, going to entertain­ments wearing brightly colored clothes. The gondolas were going down and coming up like cormorants on the water. The ringing of the bells mixed with the ballads of sailors, the smells of spices coming out from the stores of the Rialto Bridge. He stood alone in the red velvet captain's cockpit of the Bucentaur, sailing without touching the calm water like a mythical bird. Instead of joining the crowds and following the women, he was sailing towards the castle of Saint Andrea on this great ship of state. Soon after, having left the poor fisherman's hut where he was born, he stared out to the sea from the front of the Lido. There, as he threw his golden ring into sea, he shouted, Desponsamus te, mare nostrum! The wind carried away his words to distant places, even beyond the immense deserts described by Marco Polo.

Antonio became increasingly and intolerably thirsty, and his body burned with a consuming fever. He saw the blood-red sun behind the poplars, gradually sinking. Evening was coming to earth. Suddenly he felt near fainting. The red of the sun expanded and turned into a fire consuming his body. After that, everything disappeared, everything dissolving into a dark, empty void. As Captain Antonio died on the stake piercing through his body, he could not see that Fabrizio Corner and the Byzantine secret secretary were coming from the court of Sultan Mehmed, looking at him with great horror.

photo: Petr Machan, PWF 2011