The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  It was getting dark. I got up and I looked at his footprint. I put my foot inside it. Mine was still so small. I could get both my feet into Hüseyin Abi’s footprint. I stood there until the stars came out. Nobody saw me. Maybe there was no more “me” anymore, and that’s why. Not a sound came out of me, not even from the inside. Not even my breath. Then Mom came, picked me up and carried me home. We didn’t talk. I slept a lot. In my dreams, I kept seeing the kite Hüseyin Abi made me. It’s in Almond Stream, way up the hill. Hüseyin Abi says, “Wait, I’ll go and get it,” but he’s stuck in the mud. His feet are walking backwards. The only thing I hear is the kite: flap, flap, flap.

  We Must All Defend the Motherland

  “We can’t, Aydın. I don’t trust Mother with Ayşe. You take her today and I’ll do it tomorrow. We’ll have to manage for the time being. Perhaps Mother will come right once she’s rested.”

  Mom and Dad were whispering in the kitchen. They were standing in front of a big pot of strawberry jam. And in the jam, there was a lot of pepper, because of Grandma.

  “She hasn’t been herself for a while now. Haven’t you noticed? I mean, little things like getting up late, absentmindedness, just generally letting herself go…. And now this.”

  Grandma made the strawberry jam the night before. And then, when we tasted it in the morning …

  “Mother? What did you put in the jam?”

  “Strawberries.”

  “I know that. But I can taste … Did you put black pepper in it?”

  “Strawberry jam doesn’t have any pepper, Sevgi. Why would I do that?”

  “Mother, I was thinking you might … It might be a good idea for … Oh, never mind. We’re taking Ayşe in to work. Get some rest today, all right?”

  “We make it with cinnamon, don’t we? Why would I add black pepper?”

  “That’s right, Mother. Be sure and get some rest today, okay?”

  That’s why I left home with Dad today. Mom’s not wearing the nice shoes that hurt, so I don’t need to go with her.

  All morning, until noon, nothing happened in the office. That’s because there’s a “nationalist” in Dad’s room. The government sent him. Dad said the government’s a “coalition” and it has three parties. They’re “right-wing” and “religious” and “nationalist.” And they don’t really like each other, but they made a coalition so Ecevit doesn’t get to be prime minister, even though he got the most votes. The government man in Dad’s office has a bald head. He walks on the backs of his shoes. He wears yellowish socks. He’s skinny, but his jacket is big. He seems mad all the time. There isn’t any paper on his desk. Mostly he stands in front of the window, looking out. He keeps his hands behind him, right above his bum, and plays with his prayer beads. He’s good at it. The black beads slide so fast on the string, one at a time, between his thumb and finger, click click click. He doesn’t even have to look at the beads. When he goes back to his desk, he puts down his prayer beads and picks up his pens. He likes his pens to be lined up on the desk, just so. He tilts his head to one side until they’re perfectly straight. His key chain is a skeleton man and he keeps his keys in the lock of his top desk drawer. It looks scary when the skeleton swings back and forth. When he leans back in his chair, it goes creak creak, and he leans back a lot. He doesn’t go anywhere or do anything, just sits at his desk and stands at the window and looks at his watch. The yellow watch that’s too big and slides up and down when he moves his arm.

  Nobody talked to the government man, so he came up to me. I was drawing a picture. He stuck his arms behind his back again and clickety-clicked his beads. “Is that a lamb?” he asked. “It’s a cloud,” I said. “Is that a lamb down there?” he asked. “There aren’t any sheep in my picture,” I told him. Then he left. He didn’t come back. The uncles in the office all laughed. “Way to go, Ayşe. I guess you showed him,” they said. I don’t understand. What did I do?

  At lunch time we left the office. Dad and I are going to meet with Detective Nahit, down the hill in Ayrancı. On the way, I’m going to tell Dad what Mom said. I’m going to tell him she might leave us. Dad and I walk along for a while.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, dear? It’s so hot! Isn’t it, Ayşe?”

  “Mom said something.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “But don’t get mad.”

  “Ayşe, when do I get mad at you?”

  “Not at me, at Mom.”

  “Why would I get mad at her? What’s going on, Ayşe?”

  “Mom said something.”

  “Just tell me what she said!”

  Dad stopped. I got scared. He’s sweating. His face is red. His eyes are scrunchy, and they have lots of wrinkles, in the corners. He’s scared, and it’s making me really scared.

  “Tell me!” He’s yelling at me. Doesn’t he already know? Dad grabs my arms and shakes me.

  “Ayşe, tell me this minute. What did your mother say?”

  I was going to cry. Then a whole bunch of big brothers came out of nowhere. Lots of them. They shouted, all of them, in the middle of the street.

  “Down with fascism! Turkey will be a graveyard for fascism!”

  Their eyes got big and the veins popped out on their necks when they yelled. They’re sweaty, their faces shiny in the sun. Some ladies ran away. Some others, men and women, young and old, went into the street and yelled too. They put their fists in the air and yelled. There were people everywhere. I could smell them. Two of the big brothers had rifles. They were looking around. Men like my father went up to the big brothers with the rifles. We didn’t go, though. I wanted to, but Dad pulled my arm, pulled me into a pickle shop. A sour place with lots of jars and a roly-poly man. “Come on in, quick,” the man said. “The anarchists are at it again.” Dad took a step toward the door but the pickle man was quicker. Down rolled the shutters, so loud, so metal, I couldn’t hear anything else, not Dad and not the people shouting out in the street. We were trapped with the pickles, behind the metal shutters, and the air felt heavy and sour. Dad kept wiping the sweat off his forehead. He got out a cigarette. “Mind if I have one?” the pickle man said.

  Dad handed him a cigarette. We could hear the shouting outside. The pickle man laughed.

  “They say they want a revolution, but all they do is smash things. Nobody asks what us normal citizens want. Well, these anarchists’ days are numbered. Things will be back to normal soon. What do you think?”

  “Normal? I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean? It’s all because of a handful of troublemakers. The soldiers will beat some sense into them. Then those kids will go back to school where they belong.”

  “Could you open the shutters? We’re in a hurry to get somewhere.”

  “You can’t go yet. They’ve got guns. What about your little girl?”

  “Of all the things!”

  They started clapping outside, for a long time.

  “Do you want some pickle juice?”

  “No, thank you. Not in this heat.”

  “And what about you? Do you want some pickle juice, little girl?”

  I don’t like him. He called me “little girl.” Why did Dad bring me here? Why didn’t we join the big brothers? They have mustaches just like Dad’s. The pickle man’s mustache is little and sad. And now we’re stuck in pickle man prison.

  “You look like an intelligent guy. So tell me, how long do you think it’ll take the army to get rid of all these anarchists? I say a week, tops.”

  “It won’t be that easy.”

  “I’ve got the best pickle juice in Ankara. Come on, have some.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Dad’s sweating even more now. It’s hot in pickle man prison, and dark. Dad forgot he was holding a cigarette. He got out another one, then put it back.

  “Hasan Efendi!”

  That’s what Dad said when the pickle man pulled up a shutter to look outside. There was a man with a nice mustache right outside the window, and he looked a
t my dad for a long time. He didn’t say anything, though. Dad opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything either. Only when the man walked away did Dad say, “Oh no!” Dad threw this cigarette on the floor.

  “Hasan Efendi won’t understand.”

  “Who was that man, Dad?”

  “He’s Ali’s father. I don’t believe it!”

  “What won’t he understand?”

  Dad didn’t answer, so I yelled.

  “Let’s go outside, Dad!”

  I kicked the ground.

  “Let’s go outside. Dad! Dad!”

  Nobody was shouting anymore. The big brothers and sisters were gone. The pickle man pulled up all the shutters and we left. I looked at Dad like Mom looks at him. He looked at me like he looks at Mom. He tried to smile.

  “Why don’t I get you a toy, Ayşe. Would you like that?”

  I didn’t say anything. We went to pickle prison because of Dad. He was scared. I could tell. It was all because of him!

  “Ayşe, what did Mommy say? Remember, you were going to tell me.”

  Dad scooched down and pulled me close. He’s being extra nice now.

  “Ayşe, what did your mother say?”

  I had to say something. I was scared not to.

  “Mom says … those nice shoes, they hurt her, but she wears them anyway. She doesn’t want to wear them, but she still does.”

  Dad’s mixed up now. “And?” he says. I go “I don’t know” with my shoulders. He stands up straight, and we start walking again. That’s all. He doesn’t ask me again. I might have told him. I was mad at him, but I might have told him. But he never even asked me!

  I still want my toy. Dad promised me a toy, and I won’t let him forget. I told him to get me string for jump rope. He found the kind you hang clothes on. Dad picks it out, blue, and I wrap it around my arm. “It hurts,” I say. I ask for a different one, something softer. He gets me a soft one. It’s nice and thick, too.

  Never Flee the Enemy!

  “Nuran! Give these to Hamit and Gökhan. They’re for the houses down the way. And tell Hamit he’d better not eat any on the way. I swear I’ll skin him alive if he does!”

  Auntie Seher has been making halvah since morning. She built a fire in the garden under a huge tin pot. All day, she’s been stirring the halvah and putting it in bowls for the neighbors. She’s made so much halvah that Mom said, “Next thing you know, she’ll start sending it over to Almond Stream, too.” Auntie Seher’s making halvah because her son escaped. He was in prison, but he escaped. Through a tunnel! A tunnel under the ground to another Turkey, where nobody can find him. Auntie Seher took her radio outside. Every time the news comes on, she shushes everyone and turns up the volume full blast.

  “Shhh! Quiet. They’ll say it again. Listen, everybody.”

  She grins and opens her eyes wide. She holds up a finger, like she wants to ask the teacher a question in class. Then the lady on the radio says it.

  “Fifteen terrorists escaped from maximum security prisons in Niğde and Konya early this morning. The terrorists, who are members of an illegal left-wing organization, reportedly fled through a tunnel they had dug. The names of the escaped prisoners are: Halil Taşbaş, Fahrettin Elveren, Cem Tokmakçı …”

  Auntie Seher waved her giant wooden spoon in the air and did a little dance.

  “They said it! They said it again! That’s my boy, my Cem!”

  Auntie Seher’s face is red and dripping, from the fire. It’s the same reddish-brown color as the halvah. The other women are laughing and clapping as she wiggles her hips and shakes her shoulders. One of them says, “I wish my boy would escape.” Another one says, “Well they got out of Metris. There’s not a prison our boys can’t escape from. They dig a tunnel, and out they go! Nobody ever finds them again.” “Seher Abla,” the first woman says, “is Cem going to leave Turkey? Can he come and see us first?” Auntie Seher doesn’t listen to anyone. She keeps saying the same thing.

  “Sisters, we’re having a feast tonight! I took a vow back in the day. I only have one gold bracelet, but I promised to sell it if my boy escaped. It was a promise, so now I’m selling it. I said I’d have a sheep sacrificed and pass out the meat to everyone in the neighborhood. When this halvah’s gone, I’m going to make a whole cauldron of ground wheat stew with chicken, too. Thanks be to God!”

  Mom’s smiling at Auntie Seher. The whole neighborhood’s happy today. Just like when other sons and husbands escaped from Metris. And we had fun that day, too. Back before Hüseyin Abi left. He danced the harmandalı with a cigarette stuck in his mouth. He was the best. Who’ll do that dance now? Vedat Abi can’t. He’s too short.

  Birgül Abla is helping Auntie Seher. Mom said that ever since Hüseyin Abi left, Birgül Abla “has a broken wing.” Like that swan, and she never makes a sound either. I stand next to her, so she won’t be sad. I don’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything. We just stand there, side by side. I gave her some string yesterday. “What’s this?” she said, with a small smile. “String,” I said, and she smiled again, but small. That was all. She didn’t understand, not like Ayşe did. Later, when I was getting water, I found a yellow flower up there on the hill. I gave that to Birgül Abla, too. Because of her broken wing. She put it in the buttonhole of her shirt, just like Ayşe.

  I go up to Birgül again. She strokes my hair.

  “Have you had some halvah, Ali? Shall I get you a bowl, too?” I didn’t say anything, but she got us each a bowl of halvah. We stood side by side, eating.

  “Birgül Abla, does it hurt when a wing breaks?”

  “What wing?”

  “Your wing. Mom said it’s broken.”

  Birgül Abla put her fork in her bowl and put her hand on my cheek.

  “It hurts a little, Ali. Are you telling me your wing hurts, too?”

  I pushed my fork into my arm and looked at Birgül Abla. She looked right back at me. Then I pushed harder, and a bit harder. Birgül Abla kept looking at me. I pushed harder, a bit harder.

  “It hurts this much.”

  She hugged me.

  “Don’t worry, Ali. He’ll come back.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  I stayed next to Birgül Abla until nighttime. When it got dark, they lit a big fire. It was time for fun. There’s a song they sing, but they sing it one way when they’re happy and a different way when they’re sad. “Drama bridge is narrow, O Hasan; it can’t be crossed,” they start singing, all together, happy as can be. When they get to the last line, they shout it out, loud as they can: “Shoot your Martini rifle, Hasan from Debre; let it echo through the mountains. Let the friends in Drama prison listen to it.”

  Auntie Seher cried. Then she danced when they sang, “The roads to Evreşe are narrow.” I stayed with Birgül Abla the whole time, so she pulled my head against her leg, like Hüseyin Abi. But not so hard, because of her wing. Everyone else was dancing, so we sat down in front of the house. Mom came, too. I can see the flames on their faces, glowing orange, then back to black, orange, then black.

  Mom got a stick, and she’s scratching in the dirt. She’s going to tell Birgül Abla something.

  “Birgül.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to say something. It’s a little important.”

  “Go on, Abla.”

  “I’m going to say it right here in front of Ali. But don’t tell anyone. Not even Hasan. You hear that, Ali? Let’s not tell your dad. It’s just that he doesn’t need to know, Birgül, not that I’m keeping secrets. Ali? Okay?”

  “Is something wrong, Aliye Abla?”

  Mom looked at them dancing. She scratched in the dirt again.

  “Has everyone gone crazy? A little funny in the head? One minute they’re whooping it up, the next minute they’re mourning. Sweet and sour, hot and cold. They dance through it all. Look at them now, letting loose, letting go. You can’t tell if they’re laughing or crying. Look at them!”

  Mom points to the women with her stick, t
hen to the men. They’re all dancing. And their faces are breaking up, going to pieces. Their eyes aren’t looking at anything. I can see something in their faces, and it’s a terrible thing. I look down at the ground. Mom keeps talking.

  “Birgül, have you ever heard that story about the sultan and the villagers? You know, the one where the sultan comes down hard on the villagers, breaking their backs with heavy taxes, hanging everyone who can’t pay up. The villagers weep and weep. Then, a year later, the sultan’s soldiers come back for more taxes. But the whole village is dancing in the square. When they report it to the sultan, he says, ‘Leave them alone. They’re too far gone.’ Sometimes I feel like that’s what’s happened to us. We’re too far gone.”

  “Don’t say that. It’ll all be over in a few months.”

  “No, Birgül. No, it won’t. Are you telling me it makes sense to you? This new fellow, Vedat or whatever his name is, says to build barricades, to dig trenches. Okay, he’s one of us. I know that. But does it make any sense?”

  Mom scratched in the dirt a little more. Then she looked at Birgül.

  “What are we supposed to do? Dig our way under Ankara? Hide out with our children? It’ll never work, Birgül.”

  “Vedat threw that out. It was just an idea. What we’re doing—”

  “I’ve had enough! There’s something else I wanted to say. Listen to me, Birgül.”

  Mom pointed at me with her stick.

  “You see Ali, here. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s one clever kid. My boy’s going to go to university, Birgül.

  Mom wiped her face with her hands, real hard. Like she wanted it to hurt.

  “Oh, Birgül, oh my! Now listen. Birgül, if anything happens, you know, to Hasan or me, there’s something I want you to do. It’s about Ali. I’d have asked Hüseyin, but you two are one flesh now, so I’m asking you. If anything happens to us, Birgül, will you—”