Stone Quarry

I would have given birth to a stone instead of you, he said. Their second child was born a stone. Then the others followed. She gave birth to a stone once a week. Like chickens. But while chickens laid eggs, she laid stones. Thus she added a new word to our language: to stone. In the dictionary, it meant to give birth to a stone. With the stones she produced weekly, she built a stone furnace. This furnace resembled those of the Janissaries. It did not belong to the Ottoman era but to the Mehmetli era. It was a little older—or a little newer—than that. And then, in this new or ancient time…

She flung the magazine into a corner. What crazy people there are, she muttered. But her mind was slightly scattered—and she was happy. For instance, the bills she owed had vanished from her thoughts. She often read stories to distract herself. But not just any stories: stories that would take her mind away entirely. Stories that placed her brain on a raft and set it adrift on the ocean. I need my mind to scatter while I read, she would say. Once she had read many philosophy books. You know, the kind where you enter a society and say, I’ve read this book, Marx said this about that subject. But she had grown tired of everything. Even of these books that vomited piles of information.

What were we saying? Yes, she flung the magazine into a corner. Actually, she thought she had. She threw herself onto the sofa, but the magazine was still in her hand. Her mind was scattered, yes—but not entirely. One question remained lodged in it. She shook her head, shook it again, but the question would not fall out. Then she got up, took a shower, yet the question did not wash away with the water. Well, let’s try some primitive methods, she thought, and began banging her head against the wall, rattling it back and forth. Probably, she reasoned, the question had glued itself on with Japanese adhesive. And why did the Japanese want to stick things so firmly? she asked herself another question. And just like that, the number of questions in her head doubled.

The magazine was still in her hand; it had always been in her hand: on the bus, in the café, at work, at home. What an endless magazine this is, she sighed. Can a magazine really stay in someone’s hand this long? I suppose you shouldn’t immediately devour these magazines that come out every two months. She decided to put her questions into a plastic bag and leave them by the trash. Perhaps the cats, who might need questions, would take them. The questions had entered the bag willingly; they were tired of lingering in her head. Until she got home, she hummed marches under her breath. She loved victories—even if she was the one who lost every battle. But oh, what clichés these battles are! Ayşe, refresh the tea, my dear, the news will start soon. Who’s talking for so long, for just a second!

She saw the stone furnace on the news. My goodness, how many children I have, the woman murmured. Amazing, they’re all stones! Ayşe, if I had given birth to a stone instead of you, would you still have spilled the tea? Ayşe was a gentle girl and never spoke. Actually, she wanted to speak—there was someone beside her who would let her use every word she knew. Such a person existed, yes—but that person did not know Ayşe. Ayşe lived in another time. Ayşe lived in the Mehmetli era. Ayşe lived through the Mehmetli era. Ayşe wanted to live. So many Ayşes, layer upon layer of Ayşes. This girl had strata like earth. Her mother had pulled her up from beneath the ground. A girl like a diamond! Mother, Ayşe said, paused, then repeated, mother, I’m sorry. Her mother did not hear her; she had whispered it inwardly, to herself! I was talking to her inside me.

Magazine, news, question, bag, cat, mother, furnace, stone, film, strip… Would you like another bout of dizziness? She dropped the pill she was holding. She stared long and hard at the patterns on the carpet. Why are so many lines drawn, and why are all these lines broken? Is there a place where all these lines meet? She picked up the pill—the tablet—blew on it so she wouldn’t swallow the dust. She swallowed the pill along with herself. She had never felt so full in her life. Her stomach must have been wide enough to swallow her too—amazing! But there were certain sentences she could not swallow, and she always left them in the books she feared to touch. Of course you wonder about those sentences—I wonder too. But let some things remain with Ayşe. Let some things stay always in one place. Let them not stay with us…

She turned another page; she wanted to turn them all. It was as if her fingers had been made solely for turning pages. She was standing—or sitting—by the window. Don’t expect a picturesque view from her window. What she saw were apartment buildings. And it was evening. All emotional details unfold in the evening. She arranged one by one on the table the mountains she had grown inside the magazine. Her favorite mountain was the one farthest away. She scattered the mountains everywhere. Suddenly the room was filled with dust and earth. The sheep that saw the dust, the earth, and the mountains together rushed over immediately. Grass sprouted on the carpet; she could no longer bear all this, and she felt an extraordinary urge to scream from within. That stream of the grass! She rose, fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, sprinkled it over the grass—and there it was, the stream! She stepped into the stream, and she flowed along with it. Waters flowed, pages turned, and stones began to rain down in streams from every direction. If water can exist, why not stone? Wait a moment—I forgot the magazine in the furnace.

A man stood in one corner, a woman in another. The woman stood in her corner, pulled the blanket over her head. Did the man pull it or the woman? There is a man and a woman inside me, I understand clearly now \ They told me this silently. Her soot-stained hands turned the blanket black. Oh dear! Go wash your hands! You’ve ruined the blanket! I would have given birth to a stone instead of you! Mother, are the coals burning well? Is it your fire that burns? You’re burning! She was exhausted. She tried to sleep, whispering, Maybe I’ll forget all this. But is love truly exhausting?

Note: The author wrote this story before Christ—during university days—and, preferring it to rest on the globe rather than on a computer, has gifted it to the reader. The italicized passages are quotations from the poems of Cahit Zarifoğlu. Out of respect for curious readers who may wish to read Zarifoğlu’s complete works, the author has not included footnotes to these sections.