Free A Useless Man by Sait Faik Abasiyanik Page B

gave him the look of an unruly child.
    “Hello, sir.”
    “Hello, Papaz Efendi.”
    “How are you, sir? We’re neighbors, I believe.”
    “That’s true.”
    Whenever he flashed his bright teeth beneath his black beard, he suddenly looked less Orthodox, less Byzantine. Having shed his churchman’s mask, he would take on the delightful aspect of a workman relishing a meal.
    “Tell your mother I’ll be tending the garden over the winter.”
    “I’ll tell her.” And I did.
    Early next morning I found Papaz Efendi tilling the garden with a spade. His long raincoat hung over an apple tree like a scarecrow. He had pale, muscular arms and long, white fingers that kept a firm grip on the spade. Leaning over, he picked up a handful of dirt:
    “I love the earth for its quiet, its humility, its passion, its peace. The earth is the source of all life. How could anyone be more alive than the earth? That’s why they say we’re made of the earth.”
    “So you’re a philosopher, Papaz Efendi?”
    “Oh I’m not a philosopher and I’m not a priest. I’m a human being without any earth to call my own. Or home, or religion.”
    “Religion?”
    “In a way, absolutely. But if there’s a God, I suppose He created us to live. On those terms, I can accept Him.”
    He paused.
    “But let’s forget all that. Think of the earth …”
    “How old are you?” I asked.
    “Sixty-three.”
    “What?”
    He stood straight and tall: There wasn’t a pinch of spare flesh or flab on his body; well proportioned and straight as a rail, nothing he didn’t need.
    “Heavens, that’s impossible. You don’t look a day over forty.”
    “I live to eat. I’ll drink my fair share of wine if it’s around, and you’ll never see me without a cigarette hanging from my lips. I’ll eat leaves and birds and if there’s nothing else, I’ll eat the earth – but never human flesh. It’s my stomach – I have an iron stomach. But I don’t eat much, just the amount I need to get the gears turning. I’ll never overindulge, but I like my food and drink. It keeps me young. And another thing – I never listen to what others have to say about me: ‘The papaz drinks rakı, he gets drunk, he chases after girls, he laughs too much.’ That’s what they say. Well, let them talk. To me it’s mindless chatter, nothing more. I’ve always wanted to make something of my life but I never did. I never gambled, no, I never went that far. Of course, there’s a part of me that wishes I had. When I was young there was a time when I ate nothing but bread and onions, and if a pretty girl walked past me, I’d whinny like a colt.”
    “I don’t believe you, Papaz Efendi.”
    “That’s the way I was, sir. And why not? Because I’m a priest? I’m in love with beautiful things: beautiful women, good wines, and grass and trees and flowers and birds – everything that’s beautiful.”
    And he spoke beautiful Turkish.
    “You’ll have to excuse me now. But I’ll see you soon.” And with a soft thud he drove his spade into the moist red earth.
    “Here, have a look,” he said. “How is this any different from a handful of gold? What’s gold to us anyway?”
    He leaned over and pulled up a tuft of curled couch grass and looked me in the eye and smiled, showing me his sturdy teeth.
    “Our teeth are strong because we don’t have gold, because we love the earth and are nourished by it. It’s a blessing not to have gold. If we did we’d have long since died of overindulgence. Our livers could never have taken it.”
    When Papaz Efendi’s tussle with our little garden was over, he stood there like a man who’d won a lover’s quarrel, compassionate and proud; and there, bedecked with flowers, was the beauty who’d submitted to his will: the radiant earth. Every tree had the perfect number of branches. Not a trace of unwanted couch grass on the ground. The tomato vines had grown high.
    As he surveyed the garden’s middle rows – the cucumber flowers