When Tamuz opened the shop, the day was already hot. The street contained little shade, and all appeared normal except for a beggar who had not been there the day before. There was no regular beggar who claimed this street as his territory. When Tamuz unlocked and opened the butcher shop door and flipped the açık/kapalı sign around, the beggar greeted him with the traditional request — holding out his hand, “Alms for the love of Allah.” Tamuz went back behind the counter, took 50 kurush from the till, and gave them to the beggar. “Teşekkür ederim!” said the beggar.
All day the beggar sat by the door, asking for alms as Tamuz’s customers came and went. Many gave him kurush, and Tamuz made sure to charge his customers odd amounts, so they had change in hand to give the beggar. When dinner time came, Tamuz made himself some food, and divided it onto two plates. He took one to the beggar. “Kardeş, you’ve been working hard all day with nothing to eat — please take this.”
The beggar took the plate, touched his heart with the other hand, and looked down. Then he ate deliberately. The next day, the beggar returned, and a few of Tamuz’s regular customers asked Tamuz why he permitted the beggar to hang out in front of his shop.
“The beggar has correctly divined that my customers have hearts of gold.” The customers were embarrassed, and gave the beggar kurush. On the third day, Tamuz carried an old chair to where the beggar sat, because the beggar returned. Tamuz said, “A man should not have to squat on the sidewalk. Take this old chair. I am not using it.” The beggar took the chair with thanks and sat outside the store. But his take went down, because he did not look needy and despairing enough.
On the fourth morning, when Tamuz unlocked the store, the beggar said apologetically to Tamuz, “Sir, I appreciate your chair, you are a kind and generous man, but I do not look like a beggar sitting here. I mean no disrespect, but let me return it.” Tamuz took the chair without offense and said, “You know your business best.”
On the fifth morning, Tamuz brought the beggar an old hat. “The sun beats down on the poor and rich alike. Take this old hat to shield your head.” The beggar put it on with thanks. That day, a regular customer said to Tamuz, “Isn’t that your old hat that beggar is wearing?” Tamuz agreed, noting that it was a tatty old thing he no longer wore.
The next day the customer carried an old jacket and handed it to the beggar, saying, “If Tamuz can give you a hat, I have no use for this old jacket, and you clearly have need of one.” The beggar thanked the man, and was even more surprised when he put the jacket on and found a lira in a pocket. He tried to return the lira to the man. “Effendi, you have forgotten this in the pocket of your old jacket.” “Oh well, finders keepers,” said the man.
The next day, when the beggar arrived to take up his post outside Tamuz’s store, an old pair of shoes was on the sidewalk. He put them on, and, while they were a bit roomy, they were much better than his old ones where he could see his toes and read snatches of yesterday’s newspaper. “This is a peculiar street,” he thought.
The next day, the imam from the local mosque came by with a small old prayer rug rolled up under his arm. “A righteous man should pray five times a day. I notice you are missing my call to prayer. Take this old rug an elderly parishioner left, Allah keep his soul, and when you hear me from the minaret, pray.” He thrust it at the beggar and walked away.
That day, the beggar unrolled the rug for midday prayers, and lira appeared on it. Tamuz, though not outwardly religious himself, noticed this and invited the beggar into the shop to wash his feet and hands before prayer. Tamuz held out a broom. “Do you know how to use one of these? On summer days, my shop accumulates dust, and I need someone to sweep.” The beggar took the broom and began to sweep. He was thorough and methodical. “I will pay you in food. Can you get along without begging?”
“I pay a few lira to sleep in a tent encampment under the highway bridge.”
“You can sleep in my storeroom, be my night watchman, and keep the thieves at bay.”
The next day, the beggar brought his bedroll. While he swept, he hummed and entertained the children of the customers. One of Tamuz’s regular customers said one day, “I recognize that tune — my mother from Diyarbakir sang a song with a tune like that.” The beggar held the broom like a dance partner and sang quietly:
“My new bride
has strong arms
she works the fields all day
and at night reminds me
why I paid the bride price.”
The woman blushed. “Yes, that is the song. Are you from Diyarbakir?” The beggar began a new song:
“Many years ago
I killed a man
much loved in my home town
and now I wander in shame
on dusty roads.”
He and the broom did a subtle dance step as he sang.
The other customers and Tamuz were now watching, agog. The local chai house owner, in the shop to buy a nice lamb chop for dinner, asked, “How many songs like that do you know?” The beggar sang:
“We poor people
we have nothing
but songs and wheat
but we only eat
when we work.”
Even in a city butcher shop, the customers could feel the rhythm of the scythes in the wheat harvest.
“I see you work for Tamuz. With his permission, can you come by my chai house and sing at night to entertain my customers? Those layabouts, Allah preserve them, could use some of the old country songs to quiet their incessant political arguments.”
The beggar bowed theatrically with his partner the broom, looked to Tamuz for permission, and sang, louder this time, an old song from the War of Independence:
“Politics does not put food on the table
but the heathen must be driven
from the Turk’s land.”
How long had it been since anyone had heard this song?
The next day, the sergeant of the Gendarmes came to see Tamuz. “I hear you have a beggar who sings and is working for you. We have a warrant for the arrest of Nightingale, a man killer from Diyarbakir.”
“No beggar works in my shop, Sergeant, only a proud Turkish citizen. And as for singing, you must have heard me — ‘My love is like a red red rose.’”
The Sergeant put his hands over his ears. “That will be enough, Tamuz Effendi, don’t quit your butcher career! Among the many talents Allah has given you, you bray like a donkey. I mean no offense.”
“None taken, Sergeant. How about a nice leg of lamb for the wife? Perhaps she could cook it for you tonight with string beans and eggplant, in the Greek style? Those Greeks were good for something, and this would be my gift to a long-suffering woman married to a certain Sergeant, who deals with the dregs of humanity every day.”
“Tamuz, I will accept your kind gift on behalf of my ‘long-suffering’ wife who is lucky to be married to a good man with a steady paycheck, on condition that you join us for dinner, and explain to my wife why a man who owns a butcher shop does not have a wife of his own. And then perhaps after dinner, we can have a drink at the chai house. I heard old Mazrik has hired himself a singer from Diyarbakir who sings like a bird.” He cocked an eyebrow at Tamuz. “You vouch for this beggar? No dead bodies will turn up unexplained in my precinct?”
“Allah grants repentance. Sometimes He gives, and sometimes He takes. But I have faith.”
“Not to bring up a sore subject, Tamuz, but you aren’t soft on this beggar because of your own experience, are you? Allah and his earthly authorities forgave you. You did your time. But how do you know this beggar is made of the same stuff?”
“Only Allah sees into men’s souls. But I detect that a good beggar begs for forgiveness.”
Nightingale listened from the storeroom, with his bedroll and rug under his arm and his hat on his head, ready to run out the back door.
After the Sergeant left, Tamuz walked into the storeroom and gave him a big wink. “The road can wait another day, eh? By the way, the Sergeant likes sad songs, and his family hails from Kars. So perhaps tonight, you’ll sing something to appeal.”
Nightingale began to sing quietly:
“The snow falls on Kars
the mountains grow white
a month too early
but all our sins
will be buried until Spring
and we will be happy and sad
happy and sad
that the long nights
are here already
in our bittersweet Kars,
bittersweet…”
Tamuz smiled. “Do you make this stuff up?” Nightingale swept.