CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY still a month and a half away. Michael and I join the Turks and, sure enough, a price is being discussed. Tommy, being a timid bargainer and wishing to put an end to this whole uncomfortable situation, at this moment declares that she’ll pay the outrageous price being asked. Recep, Michael and I all turn to her in dismay, while the farmer runs out into the pond gleefully, still clutching his shotgun. The boy follows, and the ridiculous sight of those two sloshing around the pond chasing the flying geese helps us restore our high regard for one another. The conversation wanders on to turkeys and Christmas. Maybe a goose will be easier to find, Tommy suggests. Michael looks up goose in Recep’s dictionary. “Kaz — we want a kaz, Recep.” The geese disappear behind some houses, followed by the dripping chasers. Michael, Tommy and I heave sighs of relief, for it will be absolutely impossible for those crafty geese to be caught now. Shouts are heard, and here comes the small boy holding a madly honking, enormous flapping bird. The farmer waits to be paid. As Tommy pays, 1 look on, amazed by our new acquisition. The boy transfers the goose to Michael since nobody else seems willing to take it. Goose and Michael ride in the back of the car with me. The car is in an uproar with three of us laughing while the goose honks and batters Michael with its strong wings. I struggle to put a plastic bag under the goose, who is busily decorating Michael’s jeans. Recep turns around from his driving and says, “ Michael, the kaz gives you a present.’’ Since Tommy has seven cats and a tiny yard, Michael and I caretake the bird. Rather than clip its wing, we decide to tether it to one of the orange trees in our orchard. Michael ties the rope so that it will not bind the goose’s leg, while I hold the struggling bird, careful not to let it bite me. The next morning when 1 come out to check on our kaz, it is waddling very slowly in the far corner of the orchard with a wisp of rope dangling from its leg. It has chewed through the soft fibers but does not seem to realize that it is free. 1can see us running through the village’s streets chasing the goose, so I rush to find Michael. I find him and grab our broom, and we come crashing into the orchard in a panic. The bird takes off flying at our approach, clears the low rock wall, and begins grazing in the next yard. Next door to our orchard is an open-air tavern which is closed for the winter season. In typically trusting Turkish fashion, all the tables and chairs have been left outdoors, and goose is wandering among these, pecking at last year’s crumbs. Michael takes the left way over the wall, and I clamber over nearer to our bird. We slowly close in — Michael waving the broom — until it is trapped underneath a chair, and 1can grab it from behind. This time we clip one of the goose’s wings and fasten it securely to its tether with a light piece of chain. Night Travels to Tibet #4 I am a census taker assigned to Tibet. My airfare is paid by a government grant. The pilot skims over glaciers and rock gorges, then tells me to jump: no a irpo rts in Tibet. On landing, my teeth rattle and I spit them out like chunks of glass. Lizards scramble for them. I follow a yak herder into a tent. He feeds me. The coffee has yarn and a weak pigeon in it. 1 compliment him on his good taste. He asks me, “Where is Tibet?" Marilyn Stablein Since Michael is going to be executioner and he feels he will form an attachment to the animal if he is caring for it daily, I am the goose feeder. I have never raised my own meat before and find myself liking such responsibility. At the end of each market day, 1glean vegetable scraps from the vendors who, by now, know where I live, how long I’m staying in Turkey, how much rent I pay, and that I’m raising a goose. But the kaz seems to mostly peck at the greens from boredom and prefers to waddle into the tall grasses and rake insects from them. Since there is no cracked, dried corn in town, I sit each afternoon and crack whole kernels with a Tiammer for a few minutes. Often I peel and finely chop a few fresh chestnuts to add to the grain. The goose continues to grow. Two days before Christmas, Michael and 1 make a special trip into town with the ax. We go to the stall of our favorite vegetable man and ask him where we can have a new handle put on and get the head oiled and sharpened. He takes the ax from us, and at first we don’t understand that he is saying that he will get it all done for us, not to worry, and that it will be ready tomorrow. Tomorrow comes, and the ax is actually ready when we go to get it. As soon as we get home, the goose goes on the stump, and Michael beheads it while 1 hold. 1am surprised how long I have to keep holding onto the body, for I have never seen an animal die before. 1say a small prayer of thanks to the goose. It ’s Christmas Eve and my fingers are sore from plucking the bird’s feathers. I am at Tommy’s house, stuffing the kaz with herbs which we picked on an earlier walk through the ruins. Tommy found a green hollylike plant with nice red berries and we made a wreath to hang on her door. Night is falling now, and as it does, the wind begins to blow in gusts. Rain is coming. The power flashes off and on as the lines sway and blow down. Now rain is falling steadily, which means trouble for us. In the past months Tommy has complained often of her leaking kitchen ceiling, and Michael and I have tried to help her readjust tiles so that the drips stop. But the cats like to play on the roof and are always knocking tiles awry. Quickly Tommy gets out every empty pot and pan and spreads them out on the floor and counter as the drips begin. Our kitchen work is slowed more and more by tripping over pans when groping for matches with flour-covered hands in the dark or trying to remember where we put our wine glasses. Finally pies are made and the goose is sewn together again, ready for slow-cooking in the morning. Tommy and I dump the water from the pans one more time and retire to concentrate on our wine by the fire. Pies and goose are baking. The house is full of people who seem to have come from all over Turkey, magically drawn together by the fragrance of Christmas. Christmas Day is a blur of activity. The rain is over and everything looks especially clean and sparkling as I hurry back and forth between Tommy’s house and mine. Michael is chopping wood for a big fire. Pies and goose are baking. We are almost ready to begin our meal when there are knocks on the door. Tommy opens it and her house is suddenly full of people who seem to have come from all over Turkey, magically drawn together by the fragrance of Christmas. They have all chosen to come to the coast today, hoping to find good weather and see their friend Tommy. One man is from Sweden and has been living in Turkey for six months while he studies horsecart painting and makes a film. His friend is a German woman who is interested in Turkish music and has been collecting tapes of Istanbul musicians. Three Americans are with them. One has spent a year planning his trip, including studying Turkish for two terms in school. He looks Turkish because he is dressed in a 1940s Western suit of Ataturk’s time, which is still so popular with Turkish men. After introductions are made, we find extra plates and carry food out of the kitchen. With a little urging, our unexpected guests agree to join the feast. Then Recep and his wife arrive bearing wine. We are happy that they have come to celebrate our holiday with us, especially since Recep’s wife rarely leaves her home and children. Everyone there speaks at least some Turkish and likes pumpkin pie. As for the Christmas goose, there’s soon nothing left but the bones.■ NOW SERVING LUNCH AND DINNER 7
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