The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “You can hear your heart here because it’s quiet. I never hear it in Rambling Gardens.”

  “It’s echoing, like there’s a big cave inside me.”

  “You’re too little to have a big cave inside you.”

  “But you can have a little cave inside, can’t you, Ali?”

  “I guess.”

  “Ali?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think they’d love us more if we were dead?”

  “Yes. But I’m not going to die. There are lots of things I want to do.”

  “Does thinking about them crying when you’re dead make you sad?”

  “No. I’m not going to die. I have too many things to do.”

  That’s when Ali showed me his list. He got up and turned on the light, and he helped me read it.

  TO DO LIST

  1. Read the Wonderland of Knowledge from cover to cover.

  2. Wear my uncle’s parka and do something important.

  3. Get the biggest gun ever for Hüseyin Abi.

  4. Get Mom a whole roomful of bread (like in Heidi) and meat (like in Hagar the Horrible).

  5. Get the butterflies into Parliament (then Hüseyin Abi can get into Parliament, too).

  6. Save the swans. (Or as many as possible. Maybe they’re too big for me to save all of them. The wingspan of a mature mute swan is typically between 79 and 94 inches.)

  I got up and turned off the light real quick. In the darkness, Ali told me not to tell anyone. I promised I wouldn’t. But I told him he’d never be able to do his list, not all alone.

  I’m glad Ali’s not going home tomorrow. When we got home from the concert, Dad said Ali’s father called. Ali’s allowed to stay for another night, if he wants. I screamed, “Yay!” but Ali didn’t say anything.

  “I’m going to help you, Ali.”

  I closed my eyes, and didn’t hear my heart after that.

  UNIT 9

  The Republic of Turkey Is a Parliamentary Democracy

  A Nation Is Composed of Individuals Who Desire to Live Together

  As I was walking up the hill to our house with Dad, I kicked at the dirt road. Dad told me twice not to “kick up a dust cloud.” He doesn’t understand. Ayşe’s mom wiped all the dirt off my shoes. I don’t want my friends Gökhan and Hamit to see my shiny shoes. They’ll know I went to a concert or something. Ayşe’s mom gave me a slice of Şokella-covered bread wrapped in a napkin with little blue flowers on it. She said I should eat it at home, since I didn’t eat it at her house. Mom hugged me when I got home, real tight. With wet eyes, she said, “What did you eat? Did you sleep?” When I gave her the bread, she pulled off the napkin. It was a little greasy, but she folded it up and put it on the shelf. “Where’s Hüseyin Abi?” I asked. Mom turned around with her back to me.

  I could hear Hamit and Gökhan.

  “Ali! Come outside, Ali!”

  I thought we were going to play ball with the other guys. But that wasn’t why they wanted me. I asked them too: “Where’s Hüseyin Abi?” I wanted to give him his Ibelo lighter. “He’s bummed out,” Gökhan said, taking a drag on his cigarette. He smokes because he’s grown up now, and that’s what revolutionary big brothers do. Gökhan’s brother gave him a pocket knife a while back, and he always carries it. “Did your silkworms make cocoons?” I asked him. “Who cares about those dumb silkworms!” he said. “We’ve got more important things to do. Now listen good.” When we got to the vacant lot, Gökhan threw his arm around my shoulder.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “You stayed with those rich people, didn’t you?”

  “They aren’t rich. They’re just richer than us.”

  Something happened while I was gone. Everyone seems different. Older. They walk with their elbows out and their hands jammed in their pockets. They look hard and tough, like revolutionaries. Gökhan breaks the news.

  “We decided something while you were away. We’re going to do a protest.”

  He leans close and speaks in a low voice.

  “All of us. All the guys in the neighborhood have been collecting yoghurt containers for the last couple days. You know, the plastic white ones. It’s against the law now to sell old tires in Ankara. We can’t find any tires anywhere. So we went through the garbage for yoghurt containers and we asked restaurants for them. We have plenty now.”

  So much has happened while I was at Ayşe’s. Does time pass more quickly in my neighborhood than in Liberation?

  “Ali, are you listening?”

  I can’t pull my strings out of my pocket, not in front of all the other guys. Gökhan looks at them. Then he looks at me. I have to ask him. I have to.

  “Does Hüseyin Abi know about this?”

  “No. We’re strong enough to do it alone. Like Mahir Çayan!”

  When I looked at Gökhan for a long time without saying anything, he got mad. Everyone gets mad when I do that.

  “Stop dragging it out, Ali! Are you in, or are you out?”

  The other boys are all looking at me. I put my hand in my pocket and squeeze my strings. I want to close my eyes. If I close my eyes, maybe I’ll be back at the concert. And even though a part of me wishes I was there, another part is ashamed for wishing it. Hamit is trying to smoke a cigarette, but he’s so useless. I look at Gökhan and nod “yes.” He smiles and slaps me on the back.

  “I knew it! I said to everyone, Ali never talks but he’s got guts. He’s brave.”

  Nobody laughed. They all grew up while I was gone, I guess. I was going to tell Gökhan about the swans. I read about them last night, and I think I understand now. But he’s changed, or I haven’t changed. I know he wouldn’t even listen to me now.

  Gökhan pointed at the ground. When the big brothers have a meeting, they all squat on the ground. That’s what he wants us to do. He’s trying to cup his cigarette in his hand. He’s learned how to flick the ash with his middle finger. We’re doing the protest early tomorrow morning. When the bus stops between our neighborhood and the one down the hill. It’ll be empty then.

  Evening came, and still nobody told me where Hüseyin Abi was. Mom and Dad aren’t talking, and I don’t know why. After dinner, Mom divided the slice of Şokella bread into three pieces. We ate it together. Dad asked what the “stuff” on top was. He smiled while he ate. He asked three times.

  “What’s this stuff called?”

  Mom said it was “Çukella,” and then, “Like I told you, Çukella!” I didn’t say, “It’s called Şokella.” We’ll never have it again anyway.

  I went up on the rooftop. That’s when I saw him. Hüseyin Abi! He’s in Gökhan’s house, sitting there with Birgül Abla, still as can be in the light of a candle. Gökhan’s uncle died in the fighting, so I guess they have an extra room for Hüseyin Abi. He has to live with Birgül Abla, so he can’t sleep at our house anymore. Hüseyin Abi has his head in his hands. Birgül Abla is petting his hair. I got down from the rooftop and sneaked straight over to Gökhan’s house. If I sit real quiet under the window, they won’t hear me. But I can hear them. And I can see them if I peep real careful. When Hüseyin Abi talks, it sounds like something is stuck in his throat, or like he needs a glass of water.

  “My stomach’s turning, Birgül. I can still smell the blood. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “Darling … My love.”

  “They say that if it weren’t for us revolutionaries, Çorum would have turned into another Maraş. After seeing Çorum, I can’t imagine what the Maraş Massacre was like. Those fascists gouged out the eyes of children! I saw it.”

  “Victory will be ours, Hüseyin. Never forget that. A reckoning will come one day, and they’ll pay. Think about that, and don’t think about anything else.”

  “Birgül, I can’t think straight anymore. You’re the only person I can confide in. My brain’s not working anymore. Not like it used to.”

  “Don’t say that! It’s not true. Forget everything. Tomorrow’s a new day,
and we have to mobilize. The fascists are escalating the violence, but the people are ready for all-out war. Pull yourself together. I mean it. My love …”

  Hüseyin’s snot is running. I can’t see it, but I know it’s running. Down his throat, kind of warm, kind of sweet. That’s why he was talking like that. He makes a fist and punches his knee. He needs to talk and talk so he can get the snot out of his throat.

  “Do you remember, Birgül? I’ve already told you about what happened to me and Guerrilla Zeki in Giresun. But I don’t think I said anything about a man we met in Gökçeali village. That guy was so proud of us. Zeki Abi had just talked for an hour and a half about the exploitation of the hazelnut workers. Then that man insisted we go home with him and be his guest. When we got there, he showed us a calendar and said, ‘Go on, read it! Read it good!’ He shouted it out, like everything he said. It was an old calendar from ’68. One of the dates was circled, and written there, in pencil, was: ‘Hüseyin Cevahir, Nahit Töre, and Ziya Yılmaz came today.’ The man looked at us and said, ‘You’re sitting in the exact same spot as the revolutionaries who came before you.’ It knocked the wind right out of me. We drank ayran with that guy and we all cried. It seems so silly now!”

  Hüseyin Cevahir. I know who he was. He was friends with Ulaş, and Mahir. All of them got killed. But I get it mixed up. I don’t remember who died where. I shouldn’t forget. I mustn’t.

  “I remember something else from that night. When Zeki Abi was talking about exploitation, he got the crowd to chant: ‘Down with the Oligarchy!’ A man in the front row kept saying that slogan, over and over. But instead of saying ‘oligarchy,’ he was saying, ‘Down with Aligarısı.’ I guess there was some bad blood between him and another villager named Ali, and he got a kick of out of changing the words to ‘Down with Ali’s wife!’ Anyway, the guy named Ali came up to him, mad as hell. The fists were flying! Me and Zeki Abi managed to pull them apart. Our lecture on ruling-class theories was completely upstaged, but we just about died laughing. I remember looking at the crowd and saying, ‘This is what it is to be alive!’ That feeling, like splashing your face in a mountain stream. Mad Hasan made me feel that way, too. Have I told you that one? No? The army was in Keçiören, searching for Mahir and the others. Mad Hasan the Woodchopper marched right up to an officer, waved the ax he always carries, and said, ‘Look here, major. I’ll bring this down on the middle of your skull and make two majors out of you. Leave those kids alone!’ Oh, how we laughed.”

  Hüseyin Abi isn’t laughing. He’s talking about laughing, but he’s not laughing at all. He wasn’t like this before. Is it because of Birgül Abla? Girls can mess with your head.

  “And there were those women in Büyükkayalı village, in Uşak. ‘Comin’ is how they pronounced ‘commune.’ They couldn’t get enough of it. ‘Tell us more about comin. We don’t care about Marx and Lenin. We want to listen to comin.’ We planted lots of pine trees along the village road there. The women tittered when we named it ‘Love Road.’ One morning, as we all headed to the fields together, there was this girl on that road, early one morning, the sun not yet up, the sky all purple, and she started singing: ‘And there was Ulaş / Ulaş like the sun / Comrade Ulaş giving up his life / My heart burnt to ashes …’ Wow! What a voice! The song ended. Complete silence. My heart was bursting in my chest. For a moment, the world was one. Then that girl said to me, ‘Hüseyin Abi, people need to feel the revolution deep in their souls, or it means nothing. You know what I mean?’ Such pure goodness. I could feel it. Do you understand, Birgül? Because I sure as hell don’t. How can such goodness and such evil exist under the same sky? I don’t understand!”

  I didn’t cry. But I felt like I did that night when Hüseyin Abi made me a kite, and the kite was swallowed up in the darkness. I think Birgül Abla is hugging Hüseyin Abi. It sounds like he’s talking into a blanket.

  “Birgül, I’m going to Fatsa next. Everyone in the city’s been rounded up. They’re being tortured. Our comrades are hiding out in the mountain villages. They have no other choice. We haven’t been allowed to build a new life. Now we have no choice but to fight to the death.”

  I could hear them breathing, the two of them. I peeked through the window. Hüseyin Abi kissed Birgül Abla. Right on the lips. Then on the neck. Like in the movies. After that, I didn’t look anymore. It’s shameful. But it’s nice to do what they’re doing. If it wasn’t, Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla wouldn’t do it. It’s revolutionary, so it can’t be shameful.

  “Ali. Ali.”

  Gökhan whisper-yelled my name outside the door. Dad was having bread and olives for breakfast, but not “a piece of cheese the size of a matchbox.” Bread and olives are plenty nice, that’s what I think. I went straight outside. All the guys were there. They were carrying yoghurt containers in big black bags. Hamit said to Gökhan, “Birinci’s no good. I wish we had Bafra.” He’s been smoking only since about yesterday but Birinci’s not good enough for him! Gökhan flicked his ash and spoke.

  “Hüseyin Abi gave a talk when he came back from Çorum. You missed it because you were staying with those rich people. Anyway, he said we need to attack “with all our might” and ‘overthrow this whole fucking order.’ He even said ‘fuck.’ We all laughed, but Hüseyin Abi didn’t. Something’s happened to him. I don’t know what. But we decided to cheer him up. We’ve collected 702 yoghurt containers, sonny boy!”

  It was still real early. The sky was purple. Hamit threw his arm around my shoulder. Gökhan smiled. We were all carrying giant black bags, and we were so happy walking down the hill. Our feet went clop clop on the road and the jiggling bags went plop plop on our backs. It was all mixed up at first, but then our feet clopped together and the bags plopped together and we were making one sound. Nobody else was out on the road. Gökhan went out ahead of us and started walking backwards. We were laughing as we repeated it after him, quietly, so we didn’t wake everyone up.

  “Hey, Revolutionary Youth / Battle time has neared / Take up your weapon / Against imperialism … Deniz Gezmiş, Mahir Çayan / They died for the revolution / Revolutionaries might die but / The revolution lives on.”

  At that moment, I understood what Hüseyin Abi was saying to Birgül Abla, about the mountain stream. We were walking together, and my heart was getting bigger and bigger. I could feel it in my chest, a huge heart. And I didn’t have goosebumps, but I sure felt like I did.

  Further along, we hid behind some garbage cans. Then we did just what Gökhan said. Two by two, we went out onto the road and emptied the bags. The bus appeared in the distance. Gökhan yelled.

  “Ali! Light it on fire!”

  I ran out and lit a yoghurt container. The white plastic hissed and blackened. Then the whole pile burst into flames.

  “Ali! Come back! The bus is coming. Get back here!”

  The fire was huge, as big as the ones with burning tires. And the smoke was dirty and black, like from tires. And then came the slogan. Well, I didn’t yell it, but they all did.

  “Hüseyin, Mahir, Ulaş! The revolution lives on!”

  We started running back up the hill. “Scatter!” Gökhan yelled. Everyone ran in a different direction. Then we met at the top. We turned and looked.

  “The bus rolled over on its side! We made the bus roll over!”

  We laughed so hard. Gökhan turned and faced us.

  “Let’s take the oath of the revolution! Everyone, stand at attention. Do you know the words by heart?”

  We shouted the oath together.

  “We, as revolutionaries, swear to tirelessly battle imperialism to the last drop of our blood and to the last bullet in our rifles. We swear it! We swear it! We swear it!”

  We were about to burst out laughing again, but Gökhan stopped us.

  “Stop laughing. There’s more. Listen: If our battle slogans shall spread from ear to ear, and if our weapons shall pass from hand to hand, and if the lamentations of our comrades at our funerals shall be the sound of machine guns and victo
ry cries and war cries … then do we say, in the name of our cause … Death! How welcome; how sweet!”

  None of us knew that part of the oath. But Gökhan had become something like our chief, and we tried to say it. We couldn’t get it right, though. We were all looking at each other and messing up. “Death! How welcome; how sweet!” Gökhan was yelling again when Hüseyin Abi came out of nowhere and gave him a big smack. Right on the side of the head. Knocking him off his feet. It was no joke.

  “What the hell are you doing? Are you out of your mind? Who taught you that?”

  Gökhan was saying, “Abi! Abi!” But Hüseyin was a stranger.

  “What’s all this about death and machine guns and battle cries? You’re still kids!”

  The rest of us went quiet as death. Hüseyin stopped and turned. He looked right at me. He had black circles under his eyes. Gökhan was still on the ground, crying.

  “Abi, we did a protest for you. Hüseyin Abi, please!”

  But Hüseyin Abi was looking at me. “Ali!” he said. And I ran away. I ran as fast as I could. I ran until my chest was tight and I couldn’t breathe. I ran until I was no more than a speck. Now I can’t give the Ibelo lighter to Hüseyin Abi. Maybe later? I wish Ayşe was here.

  The People Are Represented in Parliament

  I’m standing in the garden of the police station. Mom is standing outside the gate. She doesn’t want to come in. Before we left home, Mom and Dad talked to each other, but through their teeth, because they were fighting.

  “Aydın, you’re acting like that’s the only mulberry tree in all of Ankara! Why insist we get it from the police station?”

  “Sevgi, just step into the garden and get what you want without going inside the actual building.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Why? Will you lose your revolutionary credentials?”

  Mom stopped talking.