Bliss: A Novel by O.Z. Livaneli

darkness no eye could penetrate, they strained their ears to hear the footsteps of those who called themselves the “rulers of the mountains and the night.” Cemal knew that the captain was holding his breath though he himself could hear nothing. Then came a sound that was different from that of the drip of melting snow. Faintly, a strange indistinguishable noise came through the dark. Not even sure that it was a sound, the soldiers silently raised their guns. Cemal’s heart felt as if it were no longer pounding in his chest but in his throat. In a little while the sound would come closer, the firing would start, flares would light up the sky, and the machine gun in his hand would spurt forth sudden death.
    “Fire,” shouted the captain, as the indistinct sounds came nearer.
    Every weapon in the company erupted with a deafening retort. Flares did little to illuminate the darkness, and the soldiers fired blindly. It was difficult to know whether there was really anyone there in the darkness, but surely their efforts must show some result.
    Eventually the barrage ceased. Maybe no one had been out there, or maybe several PKK terrorists were lying dead in the dark. They would not know until the first light of day. The soldiers remained in their positions, eyes fixed ahead. The rain had stopped. After the roar of the guns, the silence of the valley was frightening.
    The night was finally over. Rays from the rising sun shot out from behind the mountains, causing Cemal to squint. He could make out the line of the peaks glowing red in the distance. A peculiarly bright star was still blinking in the morning sky. He shivered. It was now light all around, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. The valley was oddly tranquil. Perhaps the shooting had been futile, one or two thought, and began to yawn and stretch their arms. The captain was hesitant. If they really had opened fire on an empty valley, he would look extremely foolish. He commanded his men to stay low, and they waited another hour.
    Suddenly the bright yellow sun rose above the mountaintops.
    The captain stood up and surveyed the terrain through his field glasses. “There’s no one here,” he murmured quietly.
    The next instant he was lying on the ground, blood jetting from his throat, pouring out in crimson waves onto the cold earth. Cemal had never seen anyone bleed so much before. The soldiers were sobbing, “Captain, captain!” while one of them tried to telephone the news. Behind a distant rock, Cemal saw a flash that flared and went out all in a moment. But this was enough for him to realize that this was where the sharpshooter who had hit the captain was concealed. They went on the offensive immediately.
    The entire company opened fire at the rock. A storm of bullets battered against the stone; hand grenades flew through the air; the earth erupted in flame and smoke. Cemal was certain that no one could have survived that barrage.
    After the dust had settled, the soldiers advanced cautiously, wriggling over the ground on their stomachs. Another grenade was thrown, and only when all danger seemed to have been averted did they stand up. They found a body behind the rock, but it would have been difficult to say if it was human. The torso was in pieces, the head ripped apart and burned, but Cemal could see it was not Memo. A strange fit of laughter rose within him, and he controlled himself with difficulty. “My nerves must be shot to pieces,” he thought.
    They discovered two more dead guerrillas, but Memo was not among them either. Perhaps he had fled under cover of darkness while those wounded had only been able to take refuge behind the rock. “Cunning, ruthless Memo,” Cemal said to himself. “What a fox you are!” He began to laugh then, softly at first, then louder, rising to a hysterical crescendo that reverberated among the rocks. His behavior would be remembered by his friends for the rest of their lives and used as an example of a person who had