“Ahhh! September’s come, but the heat is still intolerable. What shall we do, Ayşe? Would you like to go to a museum?”
“Let’s go to the pharmacy, Grandma. Remember? You wanted to say something to Cavit Bey.”
“I did? What is it I supposedly wanted to say?”
“You’re going to tell him everything.”
“My stars, Ayşe. You’re the drollest little thing alive.”
She stopped walking and stopped laughing right at the same time.
“You know, Ayşe, I wish we could say everything we want to in life.”
Then she laughed again. She opened her top button. We started up the hill. Grandma’s hair was getting messed up, but she was laughing, so it didn’t matter. She looked so beautiful right then. And her cheeks got pink. I might tell Grandma about the swans later. Maybe she’ll even help us.
When we got to the pharmacy, there were two women inside. They were both as old as my grandmother and they sounded like my laugh box, except they were talking, too.
“Cavit Bey, you’ve heard about Bülent Ersoy flashing his new breasts, haven’t you? The whole country’s in shock!”
“Breasts on a man, Cavit Bey. And I thought I’d seen everything. Well, the audience certainly got their money’s worth—and more.”
“That fellow has finally flipped his wig, ladies. So to speak. Well, it was a long time coming.”
Grandma and I stood in the doorway. We were waiting for Uncle Cavit to see us. Grandma did her button back up. We went over and pretended to look at the medicines under the glass. I mean, Grandma did, so I did it, too. We could stay there until those two ladies went away. Then Uncle Cavit noticed us.
“Oh! Look who’s here. Welcome, Nejla Hanım.”
“Don’t let us disturb you, Cavit Bey.”
“Disturb me? You honor me with your presence. The ladies and I were just—”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The women gave a little bow with their heads, but didn’t say anything. The shop went quiet. After a moment, one of the ladies said, “Well, we’d best be going, Cavit Bey.” He went all the way to the door with them and said, “Do come again soon, ladies.” Left on her own, Grandma looked at medicines, and she got a handkerchief and a bottle of cologne off the shelves to wipe my hands. “Let me welcome you, again,” Cavit Bey said. “Can I get you some nice cold lemonade?” Grandma undid her top button as she sat down in a chair and said, “If it isn’t too much trouble.” The helper in the white coat went off to get lemonade. Grandma looked at Cavit Bey a little, then. They looked at each other and smiled. “So, how can I be of service?” Cavit Bey asked. When Grandma started talking, I walked a little further along to look at the other medicines.
“Cavit Bey …”
“Your wish is my command, Madam.”
“It is not my wish to command, Cavit Bey. I wish only to speak. What I am about to say might surprise, but please do me the courtesy of listening until I have finished. Perhaps you’ll dismiss my words as childish or naïve, but surely one of the joys of growing old is the greater ease with which one can be frank, even if, ultimately, one makes a fool of oneself. Do you not agree?”
“Absolutely, Madam. And I know for a certainty that you would never make a fool of yourself.”
“Now, if you’ll permit me.”
“I’m listening.”
“As you know, we, the two of us, belong to another time. We could never have imagined that our country would come to this! But it has occurred to me that we may be partly to blame. I wonder, sometimes, if we failed to take enough interest in our children. Or perhaps, secure in our assumption that everyone thought exactly the same way we do, we failed to appreciate and understand what was happening under our very noses. We pursued what we assumed was a common set of ideals. Even now, at my age, I tremble with emotion during every national holiday, Cavit Bey. My breast still swells with pride every time a child of our republic enjoys success in a foreign land. Nowadays, such sentiments are regarded with amusement, or even disdain. But that is how we were brought up and those were the values instilled in us. I remember what a hardship it was to get me enrolled in middle school. Hunger was widespread in those years. You remember. I’ll never forget the days when I had nothing in my lunchbox but the fish bones from yesterday’s dinner. Sitting in a corner of the schoolyard, I would gnaw at what little meat remained on those bones. We believed, back then, that an education would enable us all to work harder than ever for our country, to work all together for a brighter future. We grew up scrimping and saving, and watching American movies. I remember how dumbfounded I was when the first demonstration against the American Sixth Fleet happened, back in 1969. For me, America had always meant Clark Gable and Greta Garbo. Our generation was brought up not to cherish ideas, but to chase a dream. We didn’t have time to ponder. We were too busy striving to realize the dream of a modern, secular republic. We thought that if we minded our manners and respected conventions we would never end up alone. Well, as it turns out, life is a great mystery, a puzzle that pays no heed to propriety. Still, it seems to me, Cavit Bey, that while our generation has somehow preserved our youth, the later generations were born old. We, the children of the Republic, were always striving to be the most industrious in our class, to be the most methodical and disciplined. We never considered what it would mean to grow old. Nobody taught us or prepared us for that. Don’t you agree, Cavit Bey?”
“Nejla Hanım—”
“I wasn’t expecting an answer, Cavit Bey. That was a question straight from the heart. Please hear me out. I realize I’m meandering here.”
“It wasn’t my intention to interrupt. Please, continue. It’s always a pleasure to listen to you.”
“The long and the short of it, Cavit Bey, is that growing old apparently doesn’t mean one gracefully awaits death. No, it’s far more insidious than that. One becomes null and void. A banknote that’s been taken out of circulation. Something with no real value that can’t simply be tossed into the trash, either. Consigned to a bottom drawer or a forgotten corner. I understand now what it is to grow old and to have your feelings and desires completely disregarded, as though they don’t even exist. But, at any age, one is still drawn to the breath of life. We’re advised patience, told to wait, as the lovesick rose awaits the ardent song of the nightingale. That’s what we were taught. But our country, our people, and even life itself, are nothing but a load of nonsense! These days, everyone prefers to ‘spill their guts’ and ‘get things off their chest.’ In our day, that was for teenagers. Blurting out one’s deepest emotions was a mark of immaturity. One didn’t bare the deepest yearnings of the soul, just like that. Why, to do so is a form of suicide. One runs the risk of bleeding to death from the cut of rejection. And yet, Cavit Bey, I am prepared to take that risk, now that I’ve learned that you and your wife have decided to part ways. How do I put this, Cavit Bey? My feelings for you are suicidal.”
“Here you go, ma’am, it’s your lemonade!”
“Oh, look! He’s brought your lemonade.”
I’d already got the medicine and put it in my pocket. When the lemonade came, Cavit Bey jumped out of his chair so fast that Grandma was still looking at the spot where he was sitting a second earlier.
“It’s a glorious day outside, Nejla Hanım, isn’t it? Now that September has arrived we can all breathe a little more easily.”
The glass of lemonade was getting wet on the outside with tiny, tiny drops. Grandma wiped it with the same handkerchief she’d used to clean my hands.
“Nejla Hanım, there’s a woman who lives in Liberation neighborhood, a terrible gossip. Her name escapes me. But I suspect she is the source of these rumors.”
Grandma picked up the glass and wiped away the water on the little plate under it.
“These rumors are baseless. My wife and I remain happily married. I’m not faulting you; others have also fallen for her idle gossip. I have no idea why that woman would say such a thing, though.”
; As fast as Grandma wiped the glass and plate, it kept getting wet.
“Your kind words have left me speechless and not a little humbled. I am indescribably honored to have been the object of such a heartfelt compliment, and from a true gentlewoman such as yourself, but—”
Crash!
I dropped my lemonade. Actually, I threw it on the floor, but I knew Grandma would think I dropped it. Then I ran straight outside. So Grandma would run after me and get away. She was screaming, “Ayşe! Wait for me, dear! Where are you going?” She was trying to sound mad and trying to run. I don’t think she was mad, not really. I kept looking back when she couldn’t keep up with me. I ran all the way to the Ethnography Museum, and waited for Grandma in front. She finally came. She was breathing hard. She looked back over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Grandma. They can’t see you here.”
She looked at me. Her eyes got big. I yelled it out as loud as I could.
“Everyone’s so stupid, Grandma. Jale Hanım is, and so is Cavit Bey!”
We went into the museum garden. Then something weird happened. Grandma forgot everything, it seemed.
“We were at the pharmacy, but we didn’t get anything. Is that right, Ayşe?”
I was a little scared. But I mustn’t be. I mustn’t be, because me and Ali are going to go to the theater. I pulled it out of my pocket.
“We got this, Grandma.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Cough syrup, Grandma.”
I held my hand over the bottle so she wouldn’t see Chloroform. It was written by hand, but I knew what to look for. I’d practiced at home. Even though the letters were so small, I saw it, right there on the shelf.
The Truth Always Wins
“This is all I’ve got. Take it, and clear out. Don’t stay in Ankara.”
Without looking back, Mom held out her hand. Her hand was looking for his, there, in the air. Nobody in the restaurant noticed, not yet. They weren’t looking at us. But if they did, and if they recognized him …
In the morning, right after Dad left, Mom came running up to me.
“Don’t tell your father, my lamb, but we’re going somewhere today. But not a word about it. Okay? Don’t tell anyone no matter what. Okay, Ali?”
She hugged me. I shook my head “no, I won’t.” My head was hurting. We weren’t going to go to Ayşe’s ever again. I couldn’t ask to go. Mom said she wouldn’t. She said it to my dad the other night.
“Hasan, find me some other work. That lady, Sevgi, seemed like a friend, but she’s not.”
“I saw her husband the other day. He was hiding in a shop during a protest. I didn’t say anything about it to his face. I think he saw me, though. They can’t be trusted. I see that now.”
“We thought they were with us…. Oh, well.”
“Let me get back from Amasya, first.”
“I still don’t see why you have to go. Why can’t they get there on their own?”
“He left behind a wife and two daughters. How are they supposed to get to his funeral? I’ll be back right away. I’m only staying for a night.”
“When are you going?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’ve got to ask for leave at work first.”
“All right then.”
That night, after Dad came home from work and we were eating dinner, he laughed and shook his head. He was talking to Mom but his eyes were on me.
“You’ll never guess what our boy’s done now, Aliye. I found out today that he’s a real heartbreaker. You know Aydın Bey’s little girl. Ayşe. She’s been crying her eyes out. It’s Ali this, and Ali that. He’s all she talks about. The little rascal! Ali, did you go and steal her heart? What do you have to say for yourself?”
I didn’t say anything. Mom laughed, too.
“What’s she saying about our Ali?”
“That if he doesn’t come to her house she’ll never eat again.”
“My word!”
“That’s what her dad told me. And her mother wants you to bring Ali so she can take them both to the theater.”
“Oh, so now she’s sorry and trying to make it up to me.”
“Do it, Aliye.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
They didn’t say anything else about it. And that’s when my head started hurting. I couldn’t say, “Take me to Ayşe,” not to Mom, not after what happened. She doesn’t like it there. If I tell her I want to go to the theater, she’ll think I’m on their side, that I’ve become like them. Now we can’t save the swans. That’s what made my head hurt, and it hasn’t stopped.
Mom’s holding a piece of paper. We’re walking through Ulus and she keeps looking at it. She’s holding my hand so tight it hurts a little, but I don’t say anything. We’re almost running. It’s crowded, and if I don’t hold her hand she might get lost.
We stop in front of a restaurant. Through the window, I can see rice and chickpeas. And three chickens. It’s full of people.
“Ah, this is it,” Mom says. “Now listen up, Ali. Not a word, dear. I don’t want a peep out of you. Okay?”
I don’t understand. Mom sits down and tells the waiter to get some rice “for the boy.” We have our backs to the window, so we’re looking at the wall. I start to turn around to see the food and the people coming in. “Don’t turn around,” Mom says. She puts her hand on my leg. “Don’t move.”
Right about then, he sits down behind us. He whispers.
“Hello.”
I was going to yell, but Mom covers my mouth.
“Hello.”
“I’m sorry about this, sister. You’ve had to come all this way. I’ll be quick about it. They’re looking for me. I came to Ankara, but I need to leave.”
“If it’s money you need, I haven’t got any. This is all I’ve got. Take it, and clear out. Don’t stay in Ankara.”
Mom hands her wedding ring to Hüseyin Abi. Her hand looks for his hand. Nobody looks at us, but if they did, and if they recognized him … I can’t look at Hüseyin Abi. I wonder if he looks like the photo on the “Wanted” poster. If I don’t look, and if I forget Hüseyin Abi, will I always remember him from that photo? Mom still has her hand over my mouth. The things I want to shout can’t get out. I wish Hüseyin Abi would say, “Get over here. Why have you got that crazy look in your eye again?” But I can’t make a sound. Unless I … I stick my hand in my pocket. They’re still talking.
“I won’t take it, sister.”
“Take it. What do I need a ring for?”
Click, click, click. It’s too noisy. Hüseyin Abi can’t hear it.
“I’ve got it. Thanks. You need to clear out your coal cellar. I should have told you. I’m the only one who knows. Destroy them. That’s number one. And number two—”
“Go on!”
“Look after Birgül. And give her this.”
Click, click. Hüseyin Abi! I’m here. I’ve got your lighter.
“I’ve got it. Unless there’s something else, me and Ali better go.”
The rice came.
“Come on, Ali. Eat up your rice.”
I don’t want any rice! Mom says it again.
“Eat up your rice.”
I start eating. My mouth fills with rice. I swallow, and swallow, and swallow without chewing. I don’t take a single breath. My hand’s in my pocket. Click, click … I don’t want to cry! Hüseyin Abi can’t see me cry!
“Have her burn the letter after she reads it.”
“Okay. We’re going.”
We get up. My mouth is so full. The tears are running, and so is snot. I can’t open my mouth. Hüseyin Abi looks at me and smiles. I do it again. Click, click. He doesn’t look like he’s “Wanted” anymore. Not one bit. Hüseyin Abi has a big beard now.
We go outside. We get on a bus. Mom’s shaking. She looks at me. She leans over and whispers in my ear.
“Don’t tell anybody, Ali. Nobody!”
I look at her and look at her. Rice flies ou
t of my mouth. I throw up a lot on the bus.
When the power goes off that night, Mom digs a hole in the garden. Hush, hush. Then she takes the guns out of the sack and buries them. Nobody sees, nobody sees. I see it. A sick cat sniffs at the dirt. Get away, cat! I’ll never eat rice again. Click, click, click. We’re going to the theater tomorrow. Because Mom’s scared I’ll never talk again. She’s scared that I will talk, too.
On the bus, I put my head in Mom’s lap. I can see the writing in blue ink on the back of the seat. So much writing:
“Long live the brotherhood of the people!”
“Son of a bitch!”
“I love you, Ömer!”
And there are a lot hearts, too. With arrows and drops of blood.
A Half Truth Is a Whole Lie
“I don’t know, Sevgi. Perhaps I believe in the power of whispering now. When everyone else is shouting, it’s one way to be heard.”
“Why did you give these to me in the first place?” Mom said. She was trying to pull the yellow envelopes out of her handbag, and she was mad. “As if I’ve ever managed to keep anything safe.”
Everyone is small in the train station because the roof is so high. There are lots of villagers. A lot of kids with shaved heads. There’s a girl, and even her head is bald. She keeps looking at me. Behind her there’s what I think is a bed. It’s rolled up, though, and lots of people are sitting on it. An old man, an old woman, a young man, a big sister. The big sister’s wearing a purple dress, velvet. On it, there’s silver thread. And she has a picture of a purple rose on her chin. Her shoes are pure white. The man’s wearing black socks, but his shoes are white, too, with little heels. They’re too big for him, but he sure loves those shoes. He keeps looking at them. And he keeps spitting on his hand, and cleaning them.
There’s an uncle with a hat and he has this round red thing he holds up and puts down. It’s for the trains. He’s picking his nose. When he gets snot on his fingertips, he throws it on the floor. Sometimes it’s too wet, and it sticks to his fingers. He can only throw the drier ones. The wet ones he wipes on his trousers.
There are three big brothers, bald. Resting on their laps are postcards. They’re all the same picture of Youth Park. But they only have one pen, so two of them are waiting. The first one writes real slow. “Is there one ‘l’ or two in “willing?” he asks. Then he asks the others if they have a “signature.” He says, “I haven’t worked on one yet. I’ll do it when I get in the fucking army.” A different brother says, “What good is a signature? You’ll only use it when you write home or when you get married.” The first one stabs the other one in the leg with the pen. They all think it’s funny.
The Time of Mute Swans Page 26