The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “Sevgi, there’s going to be a fascist coup soon.”

  Önder knows how to sever the head, talking all the while.

  “I don’t know what will happen to me. Back then, after you disappeared …”

  Önder knows how to lift out the tender flesh of the cheek and deposit it on my plate with the tip of his knife.

  “I mean, after you decided to get married, things got really crazy, really intense. Do you remember Nasuhi Abi? He warned us back before the ’71 coup that it would get so bad we wouldn’t be able to keep track of our friends’ funerals. And he was right.”

  The spine came out in one clean piece.

  “I’m getting old. Sevgi, you and I were the same age, weren’t we?”

  “That’s right, Önder. And we’re still the same age.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, dear.”

  And with that one word, that “dear,” he stripped my spine clean! But he isn’t done with me yet.

  “If you ask me, those who play it safe age more slowly than those who risk everything. What do you think, Sevgi?”

  He’s lashing out at me for abandoning him in prison all those years ago and for marrying Aydın. I came here prepared for that. He’ll carve out my cheeks next.

  “Don’t misunderstand. Sevgi, I hope you don’t feel any regret or guilt. You did what you had to do. We can’t go through life wondering how different choices would have led to different outcomes. It’s best to assume that there was no other way, that we had no choice. Gazing back into the past is like peering into a kaleidoscope. Blink, and the images shift and change, become jumbled, take on new forms….”

  He gently pulls the bottom fillet off the rib cage, still in one piece.

  “Perhaps life won’t make any sense until it’s over. We’ll never be able to understand what we went through. I mean, the magazines and the pamphlets, the declarations, the theories—they’ll probably come to nothing. I hope I’m not making Lenin spin in his grave!”

  He laughed. I, a reluctant companion to his mirth, laughed too.

  “Sevgi, here’s what I’ve been thinking. We need a record not of what we lived through—that’s already been documented somewhere—but of what we won’t be able to remember. There are things we’ll never forget, but there are other things we won’t be able to remember. Anyway, look inside the envelope if you want. After all, I know there’s no power on earth that could make you talk.”

  The question in my mind flared and fizzled: Would Aydın talk under torture? I’d never wondered that. Would my husband of nine years break under torture? I know Önder wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. But Aydın? I need to chase these thoughts out of my head!

  “Sevgi, if you agree, I’ll give you a few more envelopes later. To keep safe. Something of us should be in that damned Parliament building, Sevgi. By the way, I’ll be staying in Ankara for a while.

  “What for, Önder? What’s this all—”

  “Because they say the fish is fresher in Ankara than in Istanbul. That’s why.”

  His chuckle caresses my cheek. In the ten years we’ve been apart, who taught him to laugh like that, to laugh like a man? I’m much better off not thinking. I take the manila envelope. Önder is smiling as he looks at me. I’m sure of it, even though I’m not looking at him. I stare into my handbag, the eyes of my mind resting on Önder as he looks at me. I fumble as I stuff in the envelope, accidentally folding back the corner of a page in The Lovestruck Cloud borrowed from the Library of Parliament for Ayşe, creasing the Population Census of 1971 copied for Aydın, and knocking the jar of honey sideways. That goddamned jar of honey!

  “Sevgi Hanım, are you saying you let your daughter read Nazım Hikmet?”

  So asked Abdullah Bey, the deputy director of the Library of Parliament in carefully modulated tones, an unctuous bass, just as I was about to leave work early. He then produced the sarcastic laugh I associate with members of the Justice Party, that laugh that makes me feel cornered and defensive.

  I’ve developed ways to cope, though. Sometimes I simply change the subject.

  “Abdullah Bey, the stenographers sent over the transcripts of last week’s general assembly. There were too few deputies in attendance for the assembly to convene this week, only two pages of names on the roll call list. I thought we might combine this week’s roll call with last week’s transcript, and send a single binder to the archives.”

  “It’s your party that’s preventing Parliament from functioning, Sevgi Hanım. If a presidential nominee were finally approved, the nation would be able to conduct its business. But no! Typical leftists. All they ever do is censure, vandalize, and obstruct.”

  And sometimes I act like I haven’t heard.

  “Abdullah Bey, I’m leaving early today—I’ve already told you—to take my daughter to the doctor. I’ve informed the director.”

  “Of course. You and that communist director have sorted it all out. Naturally.”

  Abdullah Bey’s fleshy lips glisten beneath his clipped, almond-shaped mustache. There is obscenity in his gaze, a grossness that makes me shudder and look at the floor even as I am absolutely certain that the oaf attributes my bowed head to feminine timidity. The disturbing gleam in that lecher’s eyes, eyes that persistently pry and violate.

  And then, so abruptly I am left speechless, Abdullah Bey’s gaze has turned into that of the earnest peasant with a heart of gold.

  “Sevgi Hanım, I brought you a jar of something special. My home province of Erzurum is famous for its honey. They say it fortifies the body. You can give some to your little girl.”

  Should I refuse his honey? That would be wrong. And Ayşe hasn’t had any honey for such a long time. He means well, so why turn him down? I murmur my thanks as I take the jar. I’m just about to turn and leave when I find he isn’t through with me.

  “One hundred lira, Sevgi Hanım. That’s only enough to buy two packs of Samsun. It’s chicken feed.”

  I’m dumbstruck. I can’t really give the honey back. I pull out some money and hand it to him, just to put an end to his nonsense. Will I be ambushed by these sly little deceits for the rest of my life?

  Abdullah Bey shuffles away, and I walk off in the opposite direction.

  “Sevgi Abla! Wait a second!”

  Nazlı, the intern, comes running up with a book, holding it against her body so Abdullah Bey won’t see the cover.

  “Could we put this in the archive?”

  “Let me see what it is first.”

  “Mini-manual of the Urban Guerrilla, by Carlos Marighella.”

  “Have they released a new edition? We used to call it ‘the triple-hole book.’”

  “What?”

  “Back in ’71. The cover design had three bullet holes. For some reason, that book was always available when everything else was banned. It was our guide to guns and armed resistance.”

  “I know what your generation thinks of mine. They think arms cause all the trouble. Arms aren’t the cause, they’re the result.”

  I can’t believe that book has popped up on the very day I’m meeting Önder! Now’s not the time to think back to those months in prison after the coup. To that pair of trousers so like the ones Nazlı is wearing now. Trousers I left behind in the superstitious belief that if I took any possessions from my cell I was more likely to end up back in prison. I tell myself not to think about how I rushed into marriage with Aydın and how I abandoned Önder while he was still serving his sentence. Not to think about how I vowed never to revisit the past when Ayşe was born a year later. Not to think about how I cried as I nursed my baby and my mother said my ‘romantic exploits’ were over forever. Now Nazlı the intern—Nazlı the naïve revolutionary of today—raises an eyebrow and gives me, the old revolutionary of yesterday, an appraising look.

  “Can we put it in the archive?”

  I could explain things to Nazlı, warn her. But she has raised an eyebrow at me, and I know she’ll need to travel the path we trod and be given jars of honey. />
  “Go and ask Abdullah Bey.”

  Stop clawing at the cigarette burn on your cheek. If this shoe keeps rubbing my heel raw I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the day.

  Nothing ever escaped Önder’s gaze, so before I met him at the restaurant I applied some makeup to conceal the burn mark—the scar—on my cheek. It’s not very noticeable any more, but Önder might see it, only Önder might see it. Aydın was too tactful to ever ask about it!

  And then Önder did spot it, there, in the restaurant. He sighed as he looked at my cheek. That’s how I knew.

  “We never had time to talk, Sevgi.”

  “Who needs to talk? There’s no need.”

  “You’re right. Maybe later …”

  “There is no ‘later,’ Önder.”

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t. But I do.

  “We used up all our ‘laters.’”

  I ran scared, and he never asked me why I blamed him. I’d have cried if he did. I’m glad he didn’t.

  What did we do after that little exchange about ‘later’? Did we eat the fish, or did the fish swallow us up? Did we talk about the opposition leaders, discuss Parliament, mouth platitudes? We were in a movie about a couple of lovers reuniting after many, many years. Why was the dialogue so wrong?

  We’re shaking hands. Did we always shake hands? I suppose we did. Didn’t he use to kiss me on the cheek? I suppose he didn’t. So, you can become lovers without making love, even once. I wonder what it’s like to be made love to by Önder? Don’t think. Don’t think.

  I should walk…. I should walk for a bit. Leave behind the scene with the white tablecloths and the rakı. Return to reality. These shoes are killing me. Now that Önder isn’t around to see, I step on the backs of my shoes, exposing the heels of my feet, as though I’m wearing high-heeled slippers. I stride down Cinnah Avenue, shoes flapping, and end up in front of the supermarket with no recollection of having walked so far, but feeling as if, in a sense, I’ve been walking nonstop for nine years, 1971 to the present. Rubbed raw all the way.

  “Lightbulbs! They’ve got lightbulbs!”

  The crowd in front of Gima passes along the joyous news. I get in line. I don’t know why. Because I’m sure to need a lightbulb one day? The other day, my neighbor, Jale Hanım, was talking to my mother Nejla in the stairwell as she returned from a meeting of the Children’s Welfare Society. I stared at her red, red lips as she jabbered.

  “You won’t believe it, Nejla Hanım! I heard patients are expected to provide their own lightbulbs and blankets before they’re admitted to the hospital. How our nation has fallen! Imagine that, our hospitals don’t have any lightbulbs! I blame it on all this anergy, this pitting of brother against brother.”

  I didn’t tell her she meant “anarchy,” not “anergy.” Nor did I point out that that they aren’t “pitting brother against brother.” What they are doing is arming Grey Wolf commandos to gun down Leftist youths. I knew better than to try to pierce Jale Hanım’s thick hide and thick skull.

  At the supermarket, I finally reached the front of the snaking line and bought two bulbs, without bothering to check their wattage. I was trying to make room in my handbag when an old man touched my arm.

  “Take it, my girl. I happened to have one in my pocket. Put it on your foot.”

  The man was holding out a small bandage. I studied his face, wondering if he was going to ask for money.

  “Go on, take it. Your foot’s bleeding.”

  I walked off without a word, disgusted with myself. I wonder if Aydın is home yet?

  Meet My Grandma, Nejla İzmirli

  “Young or old, we’re all the same distance from death, Jale Hanım. Young people know there’s no getting around it, and that’s why they’re always so agitated, forever running around in circles.”

  That’s what I said to my neighbor Jale Hanım. I was standing in the stairwell, peering at the front page of the weekend supplement. OUR READERS CHOOSE WHICH SUNGLASSES LOOK BEST ON BÜLENT ERSOY, one headline read. Either Jale Hanım didn’t understand what I meant, or she was ignoring me.

  Or perhaps she really didn’t hear me over the music blasting in her apartment. A loud song with nonsensical words that sounded to me like: “Honky Ponky Torino.”

  Jale Hanım had yelled out to me as she brought a copy of Weekend from a back room to the front door.

  “Honestly, Nejla Hanım. That family of yours always looks so glum. I suppose they think it’s frivolous to have a little fun. Reading about the rich and famous in these supplements makes life a bit more bearable, and they do come with a proper black-and-white newspaper, after all.”

  I gave Jale Hanım a hard look, but she kept chattering, her flat and unflappable voice ringing in the stairwell.

  “Oh my, get a load of this…. It says Zeki Müren had some plastic surgery done in France. And look at this picture of Bülent Ersoy wearing bright red lipstick. He’s turning into such a fairy! My word, is that hilarious or what?”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you, Jale Hanım. I thought one of your colorful magazines might cheer Ayşe up. The poor thing’s cooped up at home all day. We can’t let her run around outside, not like we used to. And Cumhuriyet newspaper doesn’t have horoscopes, or anything about Dallas.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, Nejla Hanım, old girl. Come in and I’ll make you a Nescafe.”

  “Nescafe? What’s that?”

  “Our friends bring it back from Germany, hidden away in their suitcases among their underwear. It’s a powder. You add a spoonful to hot water and it turns into coffee, just like that.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Jale Hanım.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s no trouble at all! Come in for a bit. We can watch Dallas while you sip your coffee.”

  I regretted having let her badmouth Sevgi and Aydın and wanted to say something with a sting, something to embarrass. That’s why I chose the words:

  “Young or old, we’re all the same distance from death.”

  Jale Hanım gave me a quizzical look, raised her eyebrows, nodded, shook her head, and burst out laughing. I decided not to have any of her nest-coffee, or whatever it is they call it. I was upset.

  I was climbing the stairs holding the supplement when that old song began echoing in my head again.

  “Ever since I vented my sorrows I have not known peace.”

  How auspicious that we woke up to that song this morning. If a song gets stuck in your head, it means you need to give voice to your troubles. There’s nothing wrong with having a chat and a laugh with Jale Hanım, but I’m not in the mood for it right now. Some days are like that.

  “The world shows no mercy and I have no friends.”

  Whenever Nesrin Sipahi started singing on the radio, my late husband would say that her voice rose and fell like a flag rippling in a spring breeze. May he rest in peace. He was a stern, unsmiling man, but İlyas Efendi could become lively and eager, if only a couple of times a year.

  “In this new world, I find no trace of the old world.”

  Sometimes Jale Hanım has a point. I’d suggested the other day that we go to a music hall to see Nesrin Sipahi perform. My daughter and her husband reacted by looking even gloomier. Aydın raised his head from the paper to tell me that Nesrin Sipahi sings for fascists now. Sevgi added that she performs at Grey Wolf gatherings. So, even Nesrin Sipahi is forbidden to me now!

  We were serious people, too, back in the day. We struggled to make ends meet, but we knew how to enjoy a torchlit procession during holidays, a concert at a music hall, a play at the community center. Young people today never take a break. When I asked if socialism had its own national holidays, they mocked me, not even bothering to answer my question. And my granddaughter is getting bored. It’s perfectly understandable. Don’t go out in the street, it’s dangerous; Independence Park is full of fascists and off limits; you never know when trouble might break out, so don’t sit in Swan Park. What’s the poor girl suppose
d to do all day? I’m at my wit’s end when it comes to inventing new games for Ayşe.

  “Ayşe, let’s make a ragdoll…. Come on, sweetie, I’ll bake some puff pastry and you can make your own little pastry on your own little tray…. Dear, let’s make some puppets and we’ll put on a show. Would you like that?”

  Sevgi warned me that “anything can happen” and we should keep Ayşe unaware of the danger … but how, exactly, do we do that? On one side of our apartment building is the student dormitory housing the nationalists, and on the other is the Political Sciences campus crawling with leftist students. The police station is directly across from the window of Ayşe’s bedroom, so how can we possibly keep anything from her? One day, they detained some leftist students and didn’t give them anything to eat. Mothers were throwing cookies up to the windows of the detention cells, so I had to make up a story.

  “Why, what do you think they’re doing, sweetie? Can you guess? They’re playing a game with their moms, seeing who has the best aim and who can toss the most cookies right through the window.”

  Now, every time someone is detained Ayşe starts throwing roasted chickpeas at the station, as though—God forgive me for saying this—she were scattering corn for pigeons. How many chickpeas can we get in the window? That’s our new favorite game. Thankfully, the detained kids play along. Only leftists would do that, and they’re the ones who always get rounded up.

  We’ve also started playing a game we call “Safety Drill,” a game I pray we never have to play for real. Sevgi warned me that they might come to our apartment. Ever since, me and Ayşe have been doing a drill every day. “The bogeyman’s coming,” I say, and off she goes to her hiding place. I’ve been getting more and more superstitious. It’s gotten so bad now that I can’t start the day in peace unless I wave my hands over Ayşe every morning, pretending to create an invisible dome to keep her safe.

  “Here, and here. I enclose Ayşe in a dome of light and crystal, of satin and pearls. Presto. She is sealed in her dome. May God protect her!”